GIFT   OF 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES  OF 
CALIFORNIA 


STORIES 

^iil  °FTHE 

OLD  MISSIONS 

OF  * 

CALIFORNIA 

BY 

CHARLES  FRANKLIN  CARTER 

Author  of 
"The  Missions  of 
Nueva  California" 

"Some  By-ways 

of  California" 


SAN  FRANCISCO 
MCMXVII 


PAUL  ELDER  &CCMPANY'PUBLISHERS  ! 


Copyright  1917,  by 

PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY 

SAN  FRANCISCO 


CONTENTS 


Foreword 

THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI    . 

FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 

LA  BEATA 

JUAN A 

FATHER  URIA'S  SAINTS 

POMPONIO 


PAGE 
VII 

3 

31 

53 

77 

107 


3S0241 


FOREWORD 

Of  the  last  six  stories  comprising  the  seven  in  this 
little  collection  of  Stories  of  the  Old  Missions,  all  but 
one  have,  as  a  basis,  some  modicum,  larger  or  smaller, 
of  historical  fact,  the  tale  of  Juana  alone  being  wholly 
fanciful,  although  with  an  historical  background.  The 
first  story  of  the  series  may  be  considered  as  intro 
ductory  to  the  mission  tales  proper. 

In  these  quiet,  unpretending  stories  the  writer  has 
attempted  to  give  a  faithful  picture  of  life  among  the 
Indians  and  Spaniards  in  Nueva  California  during 
the  early  days  of  the  past  century. 

October,  1917. 


VII 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

N  THE  southern  part  of 
the  Mojave  Desert  a 
low  hill  stands  some 
what  apart  from  the 
foot-hills  beyond,  and 
back  of  it.  Although 
not  more  than  two  hun- 
j> '  dred  feet  above  the  sur 
rounding  plateau,  on 
account  of  its  peculiar 
location,  a  command- 
'  ing  view  may  be  had 
from  its  top.  In  front, 
toward  the  south,  and 
extending  all  the  way 
from  east  to  west,  the  plain  stretches  off  for  many 
miles,  until  it  approaches  the  distant  horizon,  where 
it  is  merged  into  lofty  mountains,  forming  a  tu 
multuous,  serrated  sky-line.  Midway  between  the 
hill  and  the  distant  mountains,  lie  the  beds,  sharply 
defined,  of  three  dry  lakes.  In  the  garish  light  of 
day  they  show  for  what  they  are,  the  light  yellow 
hard-baked  soil  of  the  desert,  without  even  the  or- 


[3] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

sage;  b-ruoh;  but  in  early  morning  and,  less 
frequently,  toward  evening,  these  lakes  take  on  a 
semblance  of  their  former  state,  sometimes  (so  strong 
is  the  mirage)  almost  deceiving  those  best  acquainted 
with  the  region.  Years  ago — how  many  it  would  be 
difficult  to  say — these  dry  lakes  were  veritable  bodies 
of  water;  indeed,  at  an  earlier  period  than  that,  they 
were,  without  doubt,  and  including  a  large  extent  of 
the  surrounding  desert,  one  vast  lake.  But  that  was 
centuries  ago,  maybe,  and  with  time  the  lake  dried 
up,  leaving,  at  last,  only  these  three  light  spots  in 
the  view,  which,  in  their  turn,  are  growing  smaller 
with  the  passing  years,  until  they,  too,  will  vanish, 
obliterated  by  the  encroaching  vegetation. 

Back  of  the  eminence  from  which  this  extended 
view  is  had,  the  mountains  come  close,  not  as  high 
as  those  toward  the  south,  but  still  respectable  heights, 
snow-covered  in  winter.  They  array  themselves  in 
fantastic  shapes,  with  colors  changing  from  hour  to 
hour.  One  thinks  of  the  desert  as  a  barren  sandy 
waste,  minus  water,  trees  and  other  vegetation,  clouds, 
and  all  the  color  and  beauty  of  nature  of  more  fav 
ored  districts.  Not  so.  Water  is  scarce,  it  is  true,  and 
springs  few  and  far  between,  and  the  vegetation  is 
in  proportion;  for  what  little  there  is  is  mostly  de 
pendent  on  the  annual  rainfall,  never  excessive,  at  the 
best,  yet  always  sufficient  for  the  brush  covering  the 
ground,  and  the  yuccas  towering  up  many  feet  here 
and  there.  But  color,  beautiful,  brilliant,  magnificent 
color,  is  here  any  and  every  day  of  the  year,  and 
from  earliest  dawn  until  the  last  traces  of  the  evening 

[4] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

sun  have  faded  away,  only  to  give  place  to  moon 
light  unsurpassed  anywhere  in  the  world.  Truly,  the 
desert  is  far  from  being  the  dry,  desolate,  uninter 
esting  region  it  is  commonly  pictured. 

More  than  a  century  and  a  quarter  ago,  there  stood 
on  the  side  of  this  hill,  and  not  far  from  its  top,  an 
Indian  hut,  or  wickiup.  It  was  built  after  the  manner 
of  the  Indian  tribes  of  Southern  California — a  cir 
cular  space  of  about  fifteen  feet  in  diameter  enclosed 
by  brush-work,  and  roofed  by  a  low  dome  of  the 
same  material.  At  the  side  was  an  opening,  too  small 
to  permit  one  to  enter  without  stooping  low.  This 
doorway,  if  it  may  be  so  called,  being  window  and 
chimney  as  well,  fronted  toward  the  south,  facing 
the  dry  lakes  and  the  mountains  beyond.  Close  by, 
at  the  left,  wras  a  heap  of  bones,  which,  on  a  nearer 
view,  disclosed  themselves  to  be  those  of  rabbits, 
coyotes  and  quail,  while  three  or  four  larger  bones 
in  the  pile  might  inform  the  zoologist  that  the  fierce 
mountain-lion  was  not  unknown  to  this  region.  To 
the  right  of  the  doorway,  some  ten  feet  from  it,  were 
two  large  flat  stones,  set  facing  each  other,  a  few 
inches  apart;  between  them  lay  a  handful  of  ashes, 
betokening  the  kitchen  of  the  family  living  here. 
Close  by  the  stones  lay  a  number  of  smooth,  rounded 
stones  of  use  and  value  to  the  people  of  the  hut. 
Back  of  the  wickiup,  a  few  paces  up  the  hill,  a  tiny 
spring  issued  from  the  ground,  affording  a  never- 
failing,  though  scanty,  supply  of  water. 

The  location  of  this  solitary  hut,  remote  from  all 
other  signs  of  humanity,  so  far  as  the  eye  could 

[5] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

judge,  was  a  singular  one;  for  the  Indian  loves  his 
kind,  and  it  is  rare  that  one  wanders  deliberately 
away  to  make  his  home  in  loneliness,  far  from  the 
rest  of  the  tribe  to  which  he  belongs.  In  the  case  of 
this  hut,  however,  its  solitariness  was  more  apparent 
than  real;  for  although  out  of  sight  of  any  habitation 
whatever,  the  tribe  to  which  its  inmates  belonged  was 
distant  not  more  than  two  miles,  but  on  the  other 
face  of  the  hill,  and  hidden  far  in  the  recesses  of  a 
small  canon.  Here,  on  the  site  of  a  beautiful  source 
of  precious  water,  was  a  cluster  of  Indian  houses  of 
brush,  built  like  the  one  on  the  hillside.  Each  had  its 
fireplace  on  one  side,  as  well  as  the  accompanying 
heap  of  bones  of  animals  killed  in  the  chase.  Near 
the  centre  of  the  group  of  huts  stood  the  temescal — 
an  institution  with  nearly  every  Southern  California 
tribe  of  Indians — where  those  who  were  ill  subjected 
themselves  to  the  heroic  treatment  of  parboiling  over 
a  fire,  until  in  a  profuse  perspiration,  to  be  followed, 
on  crawling  out,  by  a  plunge  into  the  icy  water  of 
the  stream.  It  was  truly  a  case  of  kill  or  cure. 

Let  us  return  to  the  hillside  hut,  and  make  the 
acquaintance  of  its  inmates.  Passing  through  the 
humble  opening,  the  interior  is  disclosed  to  the  curi 
ous  eye  at  one  glance.  The  ground  embraced  within 
the  circle  of  the  wickiup  had  been  dug  away  so  as 
to  make  an  even,  hard  floor  two  or  three  feet  below 
the  surface  of  the  earth  outside.  To  the  right,  stand 
ing  on  the  floor,  were  two  large,  round  baskets,  each 
one  with  a  capacity  of  half  a  dozen  gallons.  They 
were  made  in  conformity  to  the  general  type  of 

[6] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

basket  of  the  Southern  California  aborigine,  but  with 
the  distinctive  marks  peculiar  to  the  tribe  to  which 
belonged  the  dwellers  within,  and  wroven  so  tightly 
as  to  hold  wrater  without  permitting  a  drop  to  pass 
through.  In  the  bottom  of  one  of  these  baskets  was 
scattered  a  little  ground  meal  of  the  acorn,  a  staple 
article  of  food  with  all  the  Indians  of  California. 
The  other  basket,  similar  to  the  first  in  shape  and 
size,  but  of  rougher  weave,  and  lined  on  the  inside 
with  bitumen,  was  nearly  full  of  water;  for  though 
the  finely  woven  baskets  of  the  Southern  California 
Indians  were  really  wrater-tight,  they  were  not  gen 
erally  used  for  liquids.  Any  one,  acquainted  with 
the  customs  of  these  Indians,  would  understand  the 
meaning  of  the  little  heap  of  stones  by  the  fireside 
without:  they  were  used  in  warming  the  water  in 
the  basket,  which  wras  done  by  heating  them  in  the 
embers  of  the  fire,  then,  wrhen  hot,  throwing  them 
into  the  water,  in  this  way  bringing  it  almost  to  a 
boil.  Afterward,  the  stones  having  been  taken  out, 
some  meal  was  thrown  in  and,  in  this  manner,  cooked. 
Beyond  the  baskets,  and  nearly  opposite  the  en 
trance,  against  the  wall,  was  a  heap  of  fine  brush, 
covered  with  the  tawny  skin  of  an  immense  moun 
tain-lion — a  giant  specimen  of  his  species,  and  a 
formidable  animal,  truly,  for  an  Indian  to  encounter 
with  only  bow  and  arrow. 

On  this  bed  of  brush  was  the  gaunt,  emaciated 
form  of  a  wroman  lying  stretched  out  at  full  length. 
At  first  glance,  one  might  have  mistaken  her  for  a 
mummy,  so  still  and  lifeless  she  lay;  her  face,  too, 

[7] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

carried  out  the  resemblance  startlingly,  for  it  was 
furrowed  and  seamed  with  countless  wrinkles,  the 
skin  appearing  like  parchment  in  its  dry,  leathery 
texture.  Only  the  eyes  gave  assurance  that  this  was 
no  mummy,  but  a  living,  sentient  body — eyes  large, 
full-orbed  and  black  as  midnight,  arched  by  heavy 
brows  that  frowned  with  great  purpose,  as  if  the  soul 
behind  and  beyond  were  seeking,  powerless,  to  re 
lieve  itself  of  some  weighty  message.  These  were  not 
the  eyes  of  age,  yet  they  belonged  to  a  countenance 
that  gave  token  of  having  lived  through  a  great  many 
years;  for  the  woman  lying  there  so  deathly  still  had 
experienced  all  the  varied  joys  and  sufferings  of  near 
four  score  years,  each  one  leaving  its  indelible  mark 
on  the  tell-tale  face.  She  was  clothed  in  a  loose  dress 
made  from  rabbit  skins,  sewn  together  coarsely, 
sleeveless,  and  so  short  as  to  leave  her  feet  and 
ankles  bare. 

To  the  left  of  the  entrance  crouched  a  young  Indian 
woman.  She  was  an  unusually  good-looking  speci 
men  of  the  desert  tribes:  a  tall  well-shaped  form;  a 
head  and  face  of  much  beauty  and  character,  with  a 
pair  of  eyes  that,  at  first  glance,  betrayed  a  close  re 
lation  to  the  woman  lying  on  the  bed.  They  were  of 
the  same  size,  color  and  brilliance;  but  the  tense, 
powerful  expression  that  was  seen  in  those  of  the 
aged  woman,  here  was  softened  to  a  mild,  yet  pierc 
ing  glance,  which  had,  at  the  same  time,  a  touch  of 
sadness.  She  appeared  to  be  not  more  than  twenty- 
five  years  old,  although  her  face,  in  spite  of  its  gentle, 
youthful  expression,  showed  the  traces  of  more  than 

[8] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

her  full  quota  of  hardships;  for  the  life  of  the  desert 
Indian  is  never  an  easy  one  at  the  best,  and  here  had 
been  a  greater  struggle  for  existence  than  is  usual 
among  the  aborigines.  As  she  crouched  by  the  door 
way,  she  seemed  almost  as  lifeless  as  the  old  Indian 
woman  on  the  bed,  her  gaze  fixed  absently  on  the 
extended  view  of  plain  and  mountain  stretching  out 
before  her,  the  only  sign  of  life  being  the  slow,  even 
rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom  with  each  succeeding 
breath.  Her  dress  was  similar  to  that  of  the  other 
woman,  but  was  shorter,  reaching  only  to  the  knees. 

This  young  Indian  was  the  granddaughter  of  the 
older  woman.  On  the  death  of  her  parents  (her 
father's  following  that  of  her  mother,  the  daughter 
of  the  aged  Indian,  after  an  interval  of  a  few  months) , 
when  she  was  little  more  than  an  infant,  her  grand 
mother  had  taken  sole  charge  of  her,  treating  her, 
as  she  became  older,  with  the  closest  intimacy,  more 
as  a  sister  than  a  grandchild;  and  notwithstanding 
the  diversity  in  age,  this  feeling  was  reciprocated  on 
the  part  of  the  child. 

It  was  after  her  father's  death,  but  before  she  her 
self  was  old  enough  to  see  more  than  the  surface  of 
action,  that  her  grandmother  took  up  her  abode  in 
the  lone  hut  on  the  brow  of  the  hill,  apart  from  the 
rest  of  the  tribe  of  which  she  was  a  member,  with 
the  child  her  only  companion.  At  first,  the  little  girl 
noticed  not  the  difference  between  their  mode  of  liv 
ing  and  that  of  the  rest  of  the  tribe,  all  the  other 
members  of  which  lived  together,  surrounding  the 
spring  of  water,  their  life  and  mainstay;  but  very 

[9] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

quickly,  as  the  child  grew  older,  she  saw,  only  too 
plainly,  that  her  grandmother  was  looked  upon  as 
different  from  the  others :  and  the  Indian  regards  all 
those  of  his  kin,  no  matter  how  near,  who  display 
any  peculiar  form  of  mentality,  either  with  rever 
ence,  as  something  of  the  divine,  or  with  cruel  hatred, 
when  he  believes  the  unfortunate  individual  pos 
sessed  with  the  evil  spirit.  She  saw,  in  the  brief  and 
infrequent  visits  the  two  made  to  the  tribe,  that  her 
grandmother  was  regarded  with  distrust;  that  glances 
of  aversion  were  cast  at  her  from  the  doorways  of 
the  huts  as  they  passed,  and,  once  or  twice,  a  mis 
chievous  boy  had  slyly  thrown  a  stone  at  the  two, 
wending  their  way  to  their  lonely  home. 

Long  the  child  cogitated  over  the  situation,  but, 
as  is  the  Indian's  habit,  without  a  word  to  her  grand 
parent  of  what  was  occupying  her  mind.  The  old 
woman  saw  she  was  absorbed  in  some  mental  prob 
lem,  and,  with  the  shrewdness  of  the  aborigine, 
guessed  the  subject,  and  sought  to  divert  her  thoughts 
into  other  channels.  It  was  in  vain,  for  one  evening, 
after  their  simple  meal  of  herbs,  the  girl,  gathering 
courage,  in  the  increasing  dusk,  asked  abruptly, 
after  a  long  silence: 

"Grandmother,  why  do  we  live  here  alone,  far 
from  the  others  in  the  canon?  Why  do  we — ?"  she 
paused,  frightened  at  her  temerity. 

The  old  woman  started  slightly.  She  had  been  sit 
ting  with  hands  folded  quietly  in  her  lap,  thinking, 
possibly,  of  the  absent  ones  of  her  family,  gone  to  be 
with  Ouiot  in  the  everlasting  home.  Turning  to  her 

[10] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

granddaughter,  she  answered,  slowly  and  solemnly: 
"My  child,  I  am  grieved  to  have  this  come  upon 
you  now,  for  I  had  hoped  you  would  escape  it  until 
after  I  am  gone  to  the  eternal  life  beyond.  Then  it 
would  not  have  been  to  you  a  burden,  only  a  sorrow, 
softened  by  the  thought  that  I  had  borne  bravely  the 
punishment  dealt  out  to  me,  without  a  word  of  re 
proach.  I  have  seen  that  you  had  something  on  your 
mind,  and  guessed  this  was  it,  and  now  that  you  have 
asked  me,  I  think  it  best  to  tell  you,  although  you 
are  still  but  a  child.  For  you  would,  I  know,  brood 
over  it  in  your  heart.  Listen,  then,  while  I  tell  you 
my  life  story. 

"My  childhood  and  youth  were  passed  in  a  man 
ner  no  different  from  that  of  the  other  children  of 
our  tribe;  I  worked  and  played,  careless  of  every 
thing  but  the  present,  until  I  was  a  big  girl.  I  was 
happy  in  my  ignorance,  for  why  should  I  be  singled 
out  from  all  the  rest  to  bear  the  honor  that  was  to  be 
thrust  upon  me?  I  knew  not  what  was  in  store  for  me. 
"One  night,  when  I  was  about  fifteen  years  old,  I 
dreamed  that  the  spring,  near  which  our  kindred 
live,  dried  up,  and  forced  us  to  move  to  another 
spring  where  we  had  to  stay  for  two  months.  When 
I  came  to  myself  (for  it  was  not  so  much  like  sleep 
as  a  trance),  I  wondered;  but  this  passed  away  after 
a  time,  and  I  had  almost  forgotten  the  occurrence, 
when  one  day,  about  a  month  later,  we  were  startled 
by  hearing  there  was  no  water  in  the  spring.  The 
winter  before  had  been  very  dry,  with  almost  no 
rain,  and  fears  had  been  expressed  that  the  spring 

tin 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

would  fail  us,  a  thing  which  had  not  occurred  for 
more  than  three  generations.  My  dream  flashed 
through  my  mind,  only  for  an  instant,  but  long 
enough  to  imprint  the  coincidence  on  my  memory. 
I  thought  no  more  of  it,  however,  until  some  six 
months  later,  after  our  return  to  the  spring;  for,  as 
I  saw  it  in  my  dream,  we  had  been  forced  to  depart, 
and  to  be  absent  from  our  beloved  dwelling-place 
for  two  months.  Again  I  saw,  as  in  a  dream  (but  this 
time  it  was  full  day,  and  I  knew  I  was  not  asleep), 
our  entire  tribe  in  mourning  for  our  chief  who  was 
lying  dead  and  surrounded  by  all  the  elders.  It  was 
like  a  flash  of  lightning,  leaving  me,  once  more, 
broad  awake,  yet  I  had  not  been  asleep.  This  tune 
I  was  frightened,  for  I  knew  there  had  been  members 
of  our  tribe  who  could  foretell  the  future.  Was  I 
to  be  one  of  them?  I  dared  not  tell  any  one  of  my 
dream,  and  waited  trembling,  from  day  to  day,  hop 
ing  and  praying  that  it  might  not  come  true.  But  the 
future  had  been  revealed  to  me,  and  a  few  weeks 
later  our  chief  fell  in  a  battle  with  our  enemies  to 
the  east.  When  I  heard  of  it  I  swooned,  and  my 
mother  found  me  lying  senseless  by  the  fire.  After 
she  had  revived  me,  she  asked  me  the  cause  of  my 
fainting,  and,  weakened  from  the  shock,  I  told  her  all. 
"  'Daughter,'  she  said,  after  a  long  pause,  'you  are 
destined  for  a  great  work,  for  Ouiot  speaks  through 
you.'  And,  a  few  days  later,  after  the  burial  of  the 
dead,  she  told  the  chief  men  of  the  tribe  what  I  had 
seen.  And  then  ended  my  happiness:  from  that  day 
I  lived  a  life  of  sorrow,  for  the  burden  I  had  to  bear 

[12] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

was  a  heavy  one:  not  only  when  I  foretold  disaster 
and  suffering  to  our  people,  but  when  I  had  joyful 
news  for  them,  even  then  the  dread  of  knowing  the 
future  was  terrible.  Sometimes  a  half-year  would 
pass  without  communication  from  above,  and  I 
would  begin  to  hope  that  the  awful  gift  was  taken 
from  me;  but  always  it  would  manifest  itself  again. 
My  husband  (for  I  had  been  married  not  long  after 
my  first  dream)  left  me  just  before  your  mother  was 
born,  but  I  did  not  want,  for  I  was  provided  with 
everything  by  the  entire  tribe.  Your  mother,  also, 
when  she  grew7  to  be  a  woman,  left  me  to  be  married 
to  your  father;  but  when  he  died,  he  asked  me  to 
take  care  of  his  only  child,  and  that  is  why  you  and 
I  have  lived  together  all  these  years." 

The  old  woman  paused,  and  several  minutes  passed 
silently  in  the  gathering  dusk,  while  the  little  girl 
waited  wonderingly,  afraid  to  speak.  Presently  the 
Indian  stirred,  as  if  waking  from  a  slumber,  and, 
after  a  slight  shiver,  resumed  her  tale : 

"And  thus  I  lived  for  many  years,  prophesying  as 
the  Great  Spirit  revealed  the  future  to  me,  and  my 
prophecies  always  came  true.  I  foretold  poor  har 
vests,  and  the  issues  of  our  wars.  Only  once  before 
the  last  prophecy  I  made  was  my  word  doubted,  and 
then  unbelief  was  born  in  the  minds  of  many  of  the 
men.  I  spoke  the  words  of  truth  then,  but  when 
I  said  we  should,  in  time,  vanish  from  this  country, 
I  was  treated  with  scorn.  But  I  was  right.  Are  we 
greater  in  numbers  than  our  traditions  tell  us  wrere 
our  fathers  many  generations  ago?  Is  it  not  more 

[13] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

difficult  to  live  now  than  it  was  in  former  days? 
Where  are  the  quail,  the  rabbits,  that  our  ancestors 
used  to  kill  so  plentifully?  Are  not  they  growing 
less  all  the  time?  And  the  water!  Look — "  and  the 
old  woman,  with  arm  extended,  pointed  with  her 
forefinger  toward  the  three  dry  lakes  in  the  distance, 
only  one  of  which  showed  any  signs  of  moisture,  a 
small  spot  in  the  centre,  covered  with,  perhaps,  a 
foot  of  water — "look,"  she  repeated,  "what  were 
those  lakes  years  ago?  Our  fathers  tell  us  that  long, 
long  ages  past,  those  three  lakes  were  one  large  body 
of  water.  Where  is  it  now?  Have  not  I  seen,  in  my 
own  lifetime,  the  last  one  slowly  drying  up?  Where 
will  our  game  go  when  it  has  quite  disappeared? 
And  they  laughed  at  me  for  telling  them.  It  needs  no 
gift  of  prophecy  to  see  that.  But  they  heeded  me  not. 
What  cared  they  for  anything  so  far  in  the  future 
as  that? 

"But,"  continued  the  woman,  after  a  pause,  drop 
ping  her  arm  in  her  lap,  and  speaking  in  a  low,  sad 
voice,  "the  last  time  came,  and  I  prophesied,  and 
this  time  I  told  wrongly,  for  Ouiot  did  not  speak 
through  me.  We  were  at  war  with  the  southern  tribe, 
and  it  was  revealed  to  me  that  our  men  should  con 
quer.  When  I  told  them,  a  shout  went  up,  and  at 
once  they  set  off  for  our  enemies.  It  was  four  days 
before  they  came  back,  but  I  felt  no  foreboding,  for 
never  before  had  I  been  deceived,  and  why  should 
I  be  this  time?  So  I  waited,  confident  of  the  result. 
Alas !  On  the  fourth  day  came  a  messenger  with  news 
of  the  defeat  of  our  army,  and  the  massacre  of  more 

[14] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

than  half  of  the  men.  For  the  second  time  in  my  life 
I  fainted.  When  the  men  returned,  they  sought  me 
out,  and,  with  cries  and  curses,  drove  me  from  my 
home,  and  told  me  never  to  come  back.  But,  on  ac 
count  of  the  position  I  had  held,  they  gave  me  this 
hut  by  the  spring  for  a  dwelling-place,  and  suffered 
me  to  keep  you  with  me.  If  I  had  belonged  to  one 
of  the  fierce  tribes  of  Indians  to  the  far  east,  I  think 
they  would  have  killed  me,  but  we  are  a  milder 
people.  And  here  we  have  lived  ever  since.  After  a 
time  I  was  permitted  to  visit  my  kindred,  but  always 
I  am  greeted  with  looks  of  hatred." 

As  she  crouched  in  the  doorway  of  the  hut,  and 
gazed  absently  over  the  distant  view,  the  young 
woman  was  thinking  of  that  day  when  her  grand 
mother  had  told  her  past  history.  Well  she  remem 
bered  that  night,  and  the  inspired  look  on  her  grand 
mother's  face  as  she  spoke  of  the  future  of  their 
people.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  seen  her 
in  that  psychic  condition,  and  it  was  almost  terrify 
ing.  Since  that  day,  although  at  rare  intervals,  her 
grandmother  had  given  proof  of  her  former  power, 
and  in  instances  touching  the  wrelfare  of  the  tribe; 
but  no  one  save  the  young  woman  knew  of  it. 

Then  she  travelled  over  in  thought  the  following 
years,  until  she  became  a  woman,  and  was  wooed  by 
one  of  the  young  men  of  the  tribe,  a  few  months  be 
fore  the  date  of  our  story.  There  had  been  much 
opposition  to  this  on  the  part  of  her  grandmother 
and  of  the  elders  of  the  tribe;  but  the  young  people 
won  the  day,  and  her  husband  had  since  made  his 

[15] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

home  with  her  at  the  hut.  But  his  marriage  with  her, 
in  a  measure,  cut  him  off  from  the  rest  of  the  tribe; 
and  gradually,  as  time  went  on,  he  had  found  him 
self  refused  the  company  of  his  former  associates 
in  the  hunt,  and  was  forced  to  make  his  livelihood, 
and  that  of  the  two  women,  without  the  aid  of  num 
bers.  Until  his  marriage,  the  two  women  had  been 
provided  with  food  by  the  tribe,  but  one  of  the  con 
ditions  of  his  wedding  the  young  woman  was  that 
all  assistance  in  that  line  should  cease.  Hencefor 
ward  they  were  to  live  as  though  utterly  alone.  This 
they  had  done,  and  a  hard  struggle  it  had  been  at 
tunes,  when  game  was  scarce  and  hard  to  find.  But, 
though  suffering  hunger  and!  hardship,  they  had 
stayed  at  the  spring,  dreading  to  leave  their  dwelling- 
place,  and  seek  other  and  better  hunting-grounds,  as 
is  the  custom  of  the  Indians  when  sore  pressed  for 
food. 

At  this  particular  moment,  her  husband  was  absent 
on  one  of  his  hunting  trips,  which  generally  kept 
him  away  for  several  days.  This  time,  however,  he 
had  been  from  home  longer  than  usual,  and  the 
young  wife  was  looking  anxiously  for  his  return,  for 
there  was  nothing  to  eat  save  the  remnant  of  meal 
in  the  bottom  of  the  basket,  and  to-day  her  grand 
mother  appeared  to  be  worse.  The  old  woman  was 
dying  slowly  of  old  age,  aided  by  the  peculiar  hard 
ship  of  her  long  life;  she  had  not  left  her  bed  for 
some  time,  and  the  young  woman  could  see  that  her 
aged  grandparent  was  not  long  for  this  world.  Dur 
ing  her  illness  (which,  however,  was  more  a  gradual 

[16] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

breaking  down  and  dying  of  her  strength  than  actual 
illness;  for  her  mind  seemed  to  be  as  clear  as  ever) 
she  had  given  evidences  of  having  something  in  her 
thought,  some  instruction  or  advice  she  desired  to 
impart  to  her  children,  but  which,  so  feeble  was  she, 
was  beyond  her  strength  to  utter.  Thus  she  had  lain 
for  three  days,  motionless,  but  for  the  restless  turn 
ing  of  the  head,  and  the  burning,  gleaming  eyes 
seeming  to  take  the  place  of  her  voice,  and  cry  out 
the  message  her  lips  refused  to  speak. 

Suddenly  the  young  woman  gave  a  start,  and  a  look 
of  joy  passed  swiftly  across  her  face,  for  she  saw  her 
husband  come  around  the  brow  of  the  hill  far  below. 
She  rose  quickly  and  hastened  to  meet  him.  As  she 
neared  him,  she  saw  he  was  bearing  on  his  back  the 
carcass  of  a  young  deer,  under  the  weight  of  which  he 
staggered  up  the  hill  toward  her.  Running  to  him  she 
cried: 

"Itatli!  Oh,  you  are  come  in  time!  You  have  been 
away  so  long!  But  I  see  you  have  had  good  luck  this 
time  in  your  hunting.  How  tired  and  thin  you  look! 
Have  you  been  far?"  and  as  she  spoke,  she  took  the 
deer  from  him,  and  laid  it  upon  her  own  strong 
shoulder. 

"Mota,  it  is  a  long  way  I  have  been,  and  I  am  sorely 
tired.  Let  me  rest  and  have  something  to  eat,  and  to 
night  I  will  tell  you  where  I  have  been  and  what  I 
have  seen.  How  is  the  grandmother?" 

"She  is  dying,  Itatli.  She  has  grown  worse  every 
day,  and  now  cannot  sit  up,  and  she  lies  all  day  so 
still — all  but  her  eyes.  She  tries  to  speak,  and  I  am 

[17] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

sure  she  has  something  on  her  mind  that  she  wants  to 
tell  us.  She  will  not  live  long." 

Slowly  they  climbed  the  hill,  with  an  occasional 
sentence  now  and  then.  Arrived  at  the  hut,  the  Indian 
entered,  leaned  his  bow  against  the  wall,  near  the 
baskets,  and  stood  regarding  the  inanimate  figure,  a 
sombre  expression  stealing  over  his  face  as  he  gazed. 
The  woman's  eyes  were  closed,  and  she  seemed  to  be 
asleep,  nothing  but  her  short,  quick  breathing  show 
ing  she  was  still  alive.  For  some  minutes  the  man 
stood  thus,  then  turned  and  strode  out  of  the  hut, 
picking  up  his  bow  as  he  passed  it,  and  carrying  it 
with  him.  Without  a  word  to  his  wife,  who  had  begun 
to  cook  a  piece  of  the  deer  meat,  and  was  busily  at 
work  over  the  out-door  fire,  he  occupied  himself  with 
his  bow  and  arrows,  testing  the  strength  of  the  cord, 
made  of  the  intestines  of  a  wild-cat,  and  examining 
closely  the  arrow-heads,  tipped  with  poison,  taken 
from  the  rattlesnake;  but  all  in  an  intermittent  way, 
for  every  few  moments  he  raised  his  head  and  gazed 
long  and  steadily  over  the  plain  to  the  far  distant  hills 
on  the  southern  horizon. 

At  last  his  wife  called  to  him  that  the  meal  was 
ready.  He  went  aver  to  the  fire  and  began  to  eat, 
while  the  woman  took  some  of  the  broth,  which  she 
had  made  out  of  the  meat,  put  it  into  a  small  earthen 
pot,  and  carried  it  to  her  grandmother,  in  the  hope 
that  she  might  be  able  to  force  a  little  of  it  down  her 
throat.  It  was  of  no  use:  the  dying  woman  was  in 
sensible  to  all  help  from  food,  and  lay  as  in  a  stupor, 
from  which  it  was  impossible  to  rouse  her.  Mota  re- 

[18] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

turned  sadly  to  the  fire  where  her  husband  was  eat 
ing  as  only  a  hungry  man  can  eat. 

They  finished  their  meal  in  silence,  and  after  the 
wife  had  put  away  the  remains  of  the  food,  she  came 
over  to  where  her  husband  was  sitting  in  the  opening 
of  the  hut,  and  crouched  by  his  side.  There,  in  the 
gathering  gloom  of  the  night,  he  told  of  the  exper 
iences  of  his  search  for  food. 

"It  was  a  long,  long  distance  I  went,  Mota,"  he  be 
gan.  "I  journeyed  on  and  on  to  the  far  south,  until  I 
reached  a  river  that  flows  across  the  plains  toward 
the  sea.  It  was  nearing  evening  of  the  second  day  after 
I  came  to  the  river,  when  suddenly  I  heard  a  queer 
sound  as  of  the  steps  of  a  small  army  of  some  kind  of 
hard-footed  animals.  It  was  far  in  the  distance  when 
first  I  heard  it;  for  the  air  was  still  as  though  listen 
ing  to  the  voice  of  the  Great  Spirit,  its  master;  and  I 
listened,  rooted  to  the  spot  where  I  stood.  What  could 
it  be?  Never  had  I  heard  the  tread  of  so  many  animals 
at  one  time.  Nearer  they  came,  and  soon  I  heard  the 
voices  of  men,  speaking  to  each  other,  but  not  in  any 
Indian  language  I  am  familiar  with,  and  I  know  sev 
eral.  But  if  they  wrere  men  I  must  hide,  for  they 
would  take  me  prisoner,  if  they  did  not  kill  me, 
should  I  be  seen.  So  I  ran  to  the  rushes  growing  on 
the  bank  of  the  river,  and  sank  down  among  their 
thickly-growing  shoots.  The  army  came  nearer  stead 
ily,  and,  in  a  few  moments,  I  could  see  them  climbing 
down  the  steep  bank  of  the  river  a  little  way  above 
me.  I  took  one  peep,  and  my  breath  almost  left  my 
body,  for  what  I  thought  were  men  before  I  saw  them, 

[19] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

now  that  they  came  in  sight,  I  knew  to  be  celestial 
beings." 

"But  that  could  not  have  been,  Itatli,"  exclaimed 
his  wife,  "for  such  a  sight  would  have  blinded,  if  not 
killed,  you." 

"I  know  not  about  that,"  answered  the  man,  "but  if 
they  were  not  from  above,  whence  came  they?  They 
were  like  me  in  shape,  stature,  and  all  else  but  in 
color  and  dress.  They  were  white,  nearly  as  white  as 
the  snow  on  the  distant  mountains,  and  their  bodies 
were  completely  covered  with  their  clothes,  except 
ing  only  their  faces  and  hands.  Their  clothes  were 
not  made  of  skins,  but  were  something  different  from 
any  thing  I  had  ever  seen;  it  was  more  like  fine  basket- 
work  than  anything  I  know  of.  They  had  no  bows  and 
arrows,  such  as  ours,  but  straight,  long,  bright  weap 
ons  which  glittered  in  the  sun.  It  may  have  been  a 
strange  kind  of  bow,  but  I  could  see  no  arrows,  and 
they  did  not  shoot  with  them  while  near  me.  On 
their  heads,  they  wore  a  large  round  covering,  which 
shaded  them  from  the  hot  sun,  and  on  their  feet  they 
had  queer  clothes,  shaped  like  their  feet,  and  these  it 
was  which  had  made  me  think  the  sound  I  heard  was 
that  made  by  animals.  But  among  them  were  a  few 
who  were  like  us,  and  they  may  have  been  Indians, 
although  they  had  on  clothes  like  the  others;  so,  per 
haps,  after  all,  the  white  beings  were  not  gods,  for 
the  Indians  were  in  their  company  and  lived." 

The  man  had  talked  in  low,  earnest  tones;  but  as 
he  advanced  in  his  tale,  his  voice,  though  still  low, 
had  taken  on  a  penetrating,  vibrating  quality  that 

[20] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

thrilled  his  wife,  and  reached  the  ears  of  the  old  wo 
man  on  the  couch,  seeming  to  rouse  her  from  her 
lethargy  like  a  voice  from  the  grave.  She  had  stirred 
restlessly  two  or  three  times,  striving  ever  harder  to 
break  the  thrall  of  her  weakness:  it  would  have 
moved  the  heart  of  any  one  beholding  her  efforts  to 
make  herself  heard,  but  she  lay  unnoticed,  for  the 
man  was  deep  in  his  wonderful  narrative,  and  his 
wife  listening  intently,  drinking  in  every  word.  At 
last  she  attracted  the  attention  of  the  two,  for  her 
strenuous  efforts  to  speak  resulted  in  a  hoarse,  gut 
tural  sound  deep  in  her  throat.  They  sprang  to  their 
feet,  and  stepped  quickly  to  the  couch.  There  they 
saw  a  surprising  change  in  the  countenance  of  the 
old  woman:  her  eyes,  bright  and  unclouded  as  they 
had  been  before,  now  looked  at  them  recognisingly, 
although  they  still  bore  the  weighty,  thoughtful  ex 
pression;  her  mouth,  now  partly  open,  was  full  of 
resolve,  and  the  lips  were  just  shaping  the  words  she 
was  about  to  speak,  as  the  two  approached: 

"Itatli,  I  heard  the  words  you  have  spoken  this  eve 
ning,  and  I,  alone,  understand  them.  You  know  not 
what  manner  of  men  were  those  you  saw;  you  know 
not,  indeed,  whether  they  be  men  or  angels.  I  will  tell 
you.  They  are  men  like  ourselves,  but  they  come  from 
afar.  Listen,  my  children,"  she  continued,  her  voice 
growing  in  power  and  volume,  "I  will  disclose  to  you 
what  I  have  never  revealed  to  any  one  of  our  people. 
About  two  seasons  of  rain  after  I  had  foretold  the 
future  of  our  tribe,  when  the  last  lake  should  have 
become  entirely  dry,  I  had  a  revelation  of  what  was 

[21] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

to  befall  all  the  Indians  of  this  great  land,  that  far 
surpassed  anything  I  had  ever  before  prophesied.  I 
saw,  as  in  a  vision,  the  great  blue  sea  sparkling  in  the 
sun,  the  little  waves  rolling  softly  to  the  shore,  to 
break  into  lines  of  white  foam  on  the  sands  of  the 
beach  at  my  feet.  I  was  alone,  but  was  not  afraid, 
although  I  had  never  before  seen  the  sea,  either  in 
my  visions  or  in  real  life;  yet  I  knew  at  once  what  it 
was.  While  I  gazed  at  the  water,  and  watched  the 
waves  rushing  up  to  my  feet,  I  felt,  all  at  once,  as 
though  an  unseen  power  was  impelling  me  to  look 
up.  I  raised  my  head  and  gazed  out  over  the  water, 
and  there  I  saw,  far  away,  a  great  white  object  that 
looked  like  an  immense  bird.  I  knew,  as  I  know  all 
things  that  occur  in  my  visions,  this  was  a  ship. 

"Presently,  the  unseen  power,  as  though  whisper 
ing  in  my  ear,  revealed  to  me  that  the  ship  was  full 
of  men  from  a  far  country,  coming  to  settle  in  our 
land,  and  that  they  would  subdue  the  Indians,  killing 
many,  taking  others  captive,  and  making  them  work 
for  their  masters;  and  that,  later,  after  many  years, 
the  Indians  would  vanish  from  the  land  which  had 
been  theirs  since  the  time  when  Ouiot  was  on  this 
earth.  Then  the  vision  faded  slowly  from  my  sight, 
and  I  seemed  to  enter  a  luminous  mist  as  I  felt  myself 
impelled  to  walk.  After  what,  in  my  trance,  seemed 
many  hours,  I  came  out  of  the  mist  on  to  a  level 
stretch  of  land,  through  which  flowed  a  large  river. 
There  were  mountains  on  the  north,  reaching  for 
many  miles,  and  from  the  west,  which  was  lowland 
as  far  as  the  eye  could  see,  came  the  cool  afternoon 

[22] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

sea  wind.  In  the  middle  of  the  plain  was  a  great  tall 
house,  white  with  a  red  roof,  and  at  one  end  hung 
some  bells  in  openings  made  for  them  in  the  wall. 
All  around  were  a  great  many  houses  of  brush,  much 
like  this  we  are  now  in,  and  outside  and  in  were 
crowds  of  Indians  working  like  bees,  at  all  kinds  of 
toil,  doing  many  things,  too,  that  we  never  do,  such 
as  planting  fields  with  seeds,  and  gathering  the  har 
vest  when  it  was  ripe;  making  cloth  for  clothes,  such 
as  you,  my  son,  saw  those  strange  men  wearing.  Then 
they  were  making  jars  and  dishes  of  clay,  and  weav 
ing  baskets,  such  as  we  use. 

"Suddenly,  a  little  time  before  sunset,  while  they 
were  at  their  busiest,  the  bells  in  the  big  white  house 
began  to  ring.  Every  one  stopped  working  and  stood 
facing  the  building.  Tnen,  as  the  bells  were  ringing, 
they  bowed  their  heads.  At  this  moment,  I  heard, 
again,  the  voice  which  yet  was  not  a  voice,  revealing 
to  me  the  meaning  of  the  scene  before  my  eyes.  'Be 
hold,'  I  seemed  to  hear,  'the  final  end  of  the  Indians 
of  this  land!  See  the  fate  which  is  awaiting  them! 
All  these  peoples  and  tribes,  and  others  far  to  the 
north  and  south  of  here,  will  be  brought  together  into 
places  like  unto  this.  They  will  be  made  to  work  at 
these  white  men's  tasks;  give  up  their  own  wild,  free 
life  in  the  open  country;  give  up  their  old  customs; 
give  up  their  own  god,  even,  to  pray  to  the  God  of 
their  masters.  And  thus  will  it  be  for  many  years, 
until  the  Indians  disappear  forever;  for,  after  a  time, 
they  will  grow  fewer  and  fewer  until  not  one  shall  be 
left  in  the  whole  land  which  once  they  owned.'  Then 

[23] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

what  seemed  a  deep  sleep  fell  upon  me,  and  when  I 
awoke,  I  was  in  my  own  home.  I  was  greatly  fright 
ened,  but  dared  not  tell  any  one  of  my  visions;  for  I 
knew  they  would  laugh  me  to  scorn,  perhaps  drive 
me  away,  as  they  did  at  the  last." 

As  the  old  woman  described  this  picture  of  the  fu 
ture  revealed  to  her,  her  agitation  increased.  She 
raised  herself  on  an  arm,  and  with  the  other  stretched 
out,  she  swept  her  hand  along  the  horizon,  from  the 
south  to  the  north,  saying,  as  she  did  so : 

"This  is  the  land  of  the  Indians;  this  Ouiot  gave  to 
our  fathers,  and  they  gave  it  to  us.  While  the  sun  has 
been  travelling  over  his  path  in  the  sky  for  many 
hundred  years,  we,  and  our  fathers  before  us,  for 
generations,  have  lived  in  this  land.  But  now  the  end 
is  come.  We  must  give  way  before  a  people  stronger 
than  we;  give  up  our  land  to  them  and  vanish." 

Her  voice  increased  in  volume  as  she  spoke,  until, 
at  the  close,  it  was  as  powerful  as  in  former  days. 
When  she  had  ceased  speaking,  she  paused,  with  arm 
still  outstretched,  as  though  transfixed.  She  gazed 
steadily  across  the  level  plain  to  the  distant  moun 
tains,  motionless  and  rigid,  while  the  two  young  In 
dians  waited,  awed  and  afraid,  minute  after  minute, 
for  they  knew  not  what. 

After  a  long  silence,  the  aged  sibyl  let  fall  her  arm, 
and  dropped  back  suddenly  on  to  the  couch.  The  fire 
of  prophecy  in  her  eyes  was  still  un dimmed;  but 
turning  toward  the  two  waiting  ones,  she  spoke  again, 
yet  as  if  coming  back  to  the  present : 

"Mota,  Itatli,  I  am  going  to  the  distant  home  of  our 

[24] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

people,  where  all  are  happy.  It  will  be  but  a  few 
hours  before  I  shall  leave  you.  Do  you,  my  son,  after 
I  am  dead,  go  to  the  village,  and  tell  the  chief  men 
all  that  I  have  revealed  to  you  to-night.  Tell  them 
that,  with  my  last  breath,  I  spoke  the  truth  revealed 
to  me  by  the  gods  above.  Tell  them  that  the  only 
safety  for  them,  and  their  children  after  them,  is  to 
live  with  the  strange  white  men  who  are  come  to  our 
land;  that  they  must  be  at  peace  with  the  strangers, 
live  with  them,  and  do  all  that  is  commanded  them; 
that  this  is  the  only  way  they  can  put  off  the  evil 
day  when  they  shall  disappear  forever.  And  it  is  for 
a  time  only  at  best;  but  it  is  better  to  do  that  than  to 
resist  them,  for  they  are  too  strong  to  be  driven  back. 
But  I  fear  they  will  not  listen  to  my  words  which  you 
shall  speak.  And  if  so,  you,  my  children,  must  leave 
here  and  go  to  the  south,  through  the  pass  in  the 
mountains,  then  toward  the  setting  sun  until  you 
come  to  the  river;  and  there  you  will  find  the  strange 
men,  as  in  my  vision.  Put  yourselves  under  their  care, 
and  perhaps  Ouiot  will  spare  you,  and  the  others 
there  before  you,  from  the  fate  of  the  rest  of  the 
tribes  in  this  land." 

Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper,  so  that  it  was  with 
difficulty  they  made  out  her  last  words.  Closing  her 
eyes,  she  lay  gasping  for  some  minutes;  after  this, 
she  fell  into  a  comatose  state,  from  which  she  did 
not  revive  again.  Hour  after  hour  passed,  the  two 
watchers  crouching  motionless,  without  a  word,  re 
garding  the  fleeting  breath  of  the  dying  woman. 
Shortly  before  the  dawn  began  to  lighten  the  horizon, 

[25] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

a  tremor  passed  through  the  body  of  the  sufferer;  a 
long,  feeble  sigh  issued  from  her  lips,  and  the  aged, 
distrusted  seer  was  no  more. 

The  young  woman,  on  seeing  this,  broke  out  into 
bitter  wailing,  swaying  slowly  forward  and  back 
ward,  while  her  husband  sat  with  his  head  bowed  on 
his  knees.  Their  first  thought  was  of  utter  bereave 
ment,  for  to  these  two  lonely  ones,  and  especially  to 
the  woman,  the  grandparent  had  been  not  only  the 
sole  member  of  their  tribe  they  had  known  for  years, 
but  she  had  proved  to  them  a  help,  at  times  through 
her  singular  gift.  On  several  occasions,  in  seasons  of 
little  game,  had  she  told  the  man  in  which  direction 
to  go  for  the  best  results.  Once,  at  her  instance,  they 
had  migrated  to  a  distant  spring  she  had  known  in 
her  youth,  where  the  three  were  safe  from  the  mur 
derous  designs  of  the  warlike  tribe  coming  to  their 
country  from  the  north. 

Finally  the  man  bethought  himself  of  the  last  be 
hest  of  the  dead  woman.  "I  go  to  the  village,  Mota," 
he  said  hoarsely,  and  without  another  word  left  the 
hut  and  set  off  down  the  hill. 

The  woman  moved  not,  but  remained  as  before, 
near  the  bed  of  her  grandmother.  There  she  sat,  on 
the  earthen  floor,  without  taking  her  eyes  from  the 
face  of  the  dead,  until  her  husband  returned,  nearly 
three  hours  later. 

"It  was  no  use,"  he  exclaimed  sadly,  "they  would 
not  listen,  but  told  me  to  go  back  and  bury  the  grand 
mother;  they  would  not  come  with  me." 

Mota  replied  not. 

[26] 


THE  INDIAN  SIBYL'S  PROPHECY 

That  night,  as  the  sun  was  setting,  the  two  lone 
creatures  made  a  grave  on  the  hill  a  few  feet  from 
the  hut,  and  there  they  buried  the  mortal  remains  of 
the  old  Indian  woman.  It  was  a  sad,  silent  rite;  both 
felt  deeply  the  absence  of  all  their  friends  and  kin 
dred;  the  lack  of  all  the  customary  wailing  proper  to 
the  solemn  service  of  burial;  but,  above  all,  the  want 
of  belief  in  the  dead  woman's  prophecy.  That  gave 
the  poignant  touch  to  their  sorrow7.  Sadly  and  si 
lently,  as  they  had  buried  the  dead,  they  returned  to 
their  hut  in  the  gathering  shades  of  night. 

The  next  morning,  these  two  bereaved  ones,  pack 
ing  up  their  few  simple  belongings,  stole  sorrow 
fully  away  from  their  home.  They  knew  not  what 
was  before  them,  scarcely  anything  of  the  country 
whither  they  were  bound;  but  such  was  their  faith 
in  the  dead  wroman's  word,  that  they  did  not  falter  in 
their  resolution  to  fulfill  her  admonition. 

The  hut,  and  all  belonging  to  it,  is  long  passed 
away;  and  the  spring,  also,  has  disappeared,  drying 
up  till  merely  a  stony  furrow  in  the  ground  shows 
where  it  once  had  its  course.  Only  the  lonely  grave 
on  the  hillside  remains  to  mark  the  ancient  Indian 
habitation  here,  and  that,  to-day,  is  almost  obliter 
ated.  As  for  the  village  beyond  in  the  canon,  that, 
too,  is  no  more;  hardly  a  vestige  can  now  be  found 
to  tell  us  that  here,  long  ago,  was  a  thriving  Indian 
settlement.  All  is  silent  and  deserted.  Truly,  as  the 
aged  Indian  prophetess  foretold,  has  the  aborigine 
vanished  from  the  land. 


[27] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI 


11 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI 


NE  of  the  few  settle 
ments  of  the  old  mission 
Indians  remaining  in 
California  is  Pala,  a  lit 
tle  village  tucked  away 
amidst  some  of  the  most 
charming  scenery  to  be 
found  in  the  southern 
part  of  the  state.  It  is 
twenty  miles  east  from 
Mission  San  Luis  Rey, 
of  which  mission  it  was 
an  asistencia,or  branch, 
and  twenty-four  miles 
from  Oceanside,  the 
nearest  point  on  the  coast.  The  village  stands  in  a  val 
ley  which  is  completely  surrounded  by  mountains, 
high  and  low,  far  and  near,  uniting  with  it  in  a  succes 
sion  of  beautiful  pictures  around  the  entire  hori 
zon.  To  the  east,  the  mountains  pile  themselves  up 
into  huge  masses,  their  tips  hidden  frequently  by 
clouds,  and  by  the  fogs  of  early  morning;  toward  the 
west,  they  fall  away  into  low-lying  hills,  allowing  the 

[31] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

sea-breeze  of  every  warm  afternoon  to  sweep  the  vil 
lage  over  them,  and  through  the  gap  of  the  San  Luis 
Rey  River  and  Valley.  At  all  times  of  the  year  the  color 
and  light  and  shade  in  every  part  of  the  valley  are 
most  lovely,  delighting  the  artist's  eye  with  a  whole 
gamut  of  aerial  perspective;  but  it  is  in  the  spring 
that  the  hillsides  and  valley  put  on  their  most  gor 
geous  robes,  from  the  lightest  tints  of  yellow  and 
green,  down  through  every  hue  and  tone  of  red,  blue 
and  purple,  soft  and  brilliant,  pricked  out  here  and 
there  with  spots  of  intense,  flaming  yellow  and  or 
ange,  or  deepest  crimson.  Such  color  scenes  are  not 
common  even  in  California;  but  on  account  of  its 
comparative  inaccessibility,  few  people  visit  Pala,  and 
the  village  has  been  left  much  to  itself  in  these  latter 
days  of  American  life  in  the  state.  The  Indians  live 
the  life  of  the  poorest  class  of  Mexicans,  dwell  in 
adobe  huts,  and  pursue  an  agricultural  occupation. 
During  the  last  week  of  May,  1895,  I  passed  two 
days  in  this  interesting  place,  exploring  the  remains 
of  the  asistencia,  and  sketching  the  unique  bell-tower 
and  near-by  mission  houses.  I  was  an  object  of  inter 
est  to  all  who  saw  me,  but  was  not  favored  with  much 
company  until  the  second  afternoon,  when,  after  I 
had  passed  an  hour  or  so  in  the  campo  santo,  an  old 
Indian  slowly  appeared  and  greeted  me.  He  must 
have  been  nearly  eighty  years  old,  and  he  was  obliged 
to  use  a  cane  to  assist  his  slow  and  faltering  steps. 
Several  times  during  the  two  days  I  had  seen  him, 
sitting  in  the  sun  on  the  rough  porch  of  a  house  close 
by,  or  ambling  slowly  about,  and  had  been  struck 

[32] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI 

with  his  appearance.  Although  bent  with  his  years, 
he  was  tall,  and,  in  his  younger  days,  must  have  had 
a  graceful,  as  well  as  powerful,  figure,  traces  of  it 
remaining  still,  in  spite  of  his  decrepitude.  But  his 
face  was  the  most  noticeable  thing  about  him.  Not 
withstanding  the  dimness  of  age,  there  was  a  won 
derful  amount  of  intelligence  and  animation  in  his 
expression,  and  the  deep,  black  eyes  could  hardly 
have  been  brighter  and  more  piercing  at  the  age  of 
forty  than  they  now  appeared.  His  long  straight  hair 
was  still  thick,  but  very  grey.  He  wore  the  ordinary 
dress  of  the  poor  man.  He  was,  in  fine,  a  specimen  of 
wrhat  the  missions  could  do  with  the  Indians  when 
working  on  the  best  material  to  be  found  among 
them. 

"Buenos  dias,  Sefior,"  he  said  gravely,  as  he  came 
near. 

"Buenos  dias." 

"Will  the  Senor  be  disturbed  if  I  stay  here  awhile 
and  watch  him  work?"  he  continued  in  Spanish, 
which  he  spoke  rather  slowly,  but  with  as  much  ease 
and  correctness  as  a  Mexican. 

I  answered  I  should  be  glad  to  have  him  remain  so 
long  as  he  pleased,  and,  in  return,  after  he  had  seated 
himself  beside  me  on  an  old  ruined  adobe  wall,  asked 
if  he  had  lived  long  here. 

"For  over  sixty  years,  Senor." 

"And  where  did  you  spend  your  early  years,  for  I 
think  you  have  seen  many  more  than  sixty?"  I  asked. 

"Si,  Senor,  I  am  eighty-one  now.  Until  I  was  about 
twenty,  I  lived  at  Mission  San  Luis  Rey,  twenty  miles 

[33] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

from  here.  Has  the  Seiior  ever  seen  San  Luis  Rey?" 

I  nodded,  continuing  with  my  sketch. 

"Ah !  that  was  a  beautiful  mission  sixty  years  ago," 
the  old  man  said,  in  a  tone  of  sad  retrospect. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  I  said.  "In  those  days,  sixty 
years  ago,  the  mission  must  have  been  perfect,  with 
no  ruins  to  mar  its  beauty.  And  were  there  not  many 
neophytes  at  that  time?"  I  added. 

"Seiior,  San  Luis  Rey  was  the  largest  mission  in 
California.  So  much  larger  than  this  place,  although 
Pala  had  many  more  Indians  in  those  days,  before 
the  padres  were  driven  away,  that  it  seemed  to  me 
like  a  city.  There  were  more  than  two  thousand  In 
dians,  and  all  worked  busily  from  morning  until 
night,  the  men  plowing  and  planting  in  the  fields,  or 
making  adobes  for  building  houses,  and  the  women 
weaving  and  sewing  and  cooking.  Every  one  had 
something  to  do,  and  knew  it  must  be  done,  and  all 
were  willing  and  glad  to  do  it;  for  we  all  dearly 
loved  the  padre,  he  was  so  good,  and  it  was  a  happi 
ness  to  do  what  he  demanded  of  us." 

"You  speak  of  Padre  Peyri,  do  you  not?"  I  asked. 

"Si,  Seiior.  Padre  Peyri  was  the  head  of  the  mis 
sion,  and  no  one  could  do  anything  unless  he  had  the 
padre's  consent.  There  was  almost  always  a  second 
padre  there,  but  this  second  padre  never  stayed  long, 
and  when  one  went  away,  another  would  come  in 
his  place;  but  Padre  Peyri  was  there  all  the  time, 
and  never  left  the  mission  until  he  went  back  to 
Mexico." 

"And  what,"  I  asked,  "did  you  do  in  those  days, 

[34] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI 

before  you  were  large  enough  for  a  man's  work?" 
"I  worked  with  the  children,  for  the  children  had 
their  own  work  to  do  just  the  same  as  the  grown  peo 
ple.  We  had  to  go  to  school  at  the  mission  every  day, 
to  learn  to  speak  Spanish,  and  to  say  the  doctrina 
cristiana,  to  read  and  write;  but  not  all  the  children 
could  get  so  far  as  to  write,  for  it  was  hard  for  them 
to  learn,  and  only  the  brightest  ones  were  ever  able 
to  write  more  than  their  names.  But  it  was  not  so 
hard  for  me,  for  I  wished  to  learn,  and  the  padres 
liked  to  teach  me.  Then,  after  school,  we  had  other 
work — to  fetch  wood  for  the  fires;  to  drive  the  cows 
to  the  fields;  to  feed  and  water  the  horses  at  the  mis 
sion,  and  all  such  things  that  boys  can  do.  There  were 
a  hundred  boys  or  more  in  the  country  around,  and 
many  of  them  seldom  came  to  the  mission  except  for 
school  and  Sunday  mass;  but  there  wrere  always 
enough,  and  more  than  enough,  to  do  all  the  work, 
and  they  had  plenty  of  time  for  play.  But  my  work 
was  different  from  that  of  the  other  boys.  I  was  one 
of  the  two  boys  who  waited  on  the  padres  at  meal 
times,  swept  the  mission  rooms  and  walks,  and  were 
ready  to  do  any  errands  the  padres  wished.  Then,  for 
three  years,  I  was  one  of  the  altar  boys,  until  I  could 
play  well  enough  to  go  into  the  choir.  And  that  is 
what  I  liked  better  than  anything  else — to  play  on 
my  violin.  I  began  to  learn  when  I  was  twelve  years 
old.  I  used  to  listen  to  the  boys  of  the  choir,  when 
they  were  practising  their  mass  music,  and  again  on 
Sundays  in  the  church,  and  wish  I,  too,  could  learn 
to  make  that  beautiful  music.  Many  times  I  implored 

[35] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

the  padre  to  let  me  learn,  and  he  would  say:  'After 
a  little,  my  son,  when  you  are  old  enough;  it  is  a  dif 
ficult  instrument  to  learn.'  I  knew  he  was  right,  but 
did  not  like  to  wait.  At  last,  however,  he  told  me  I  was 
to  begin,  and  the  very  next  day  gave  me  a  violin,  and 
sent  me  to  the  choir  teacher.  It  was  a  happy  day  for 
me." 

"Tell  me  something  about  Padre  Peyri,"  I  asked. 

"Sefior,  I  could  talk  all  day  long  about  that  good 
man.  He  was  so  kind  and  gentle  to  all,  that  no  one 
but  would  have  been  willing  to  die  for  him,  if  he  had 
asked  such  a  thing.  He  was  not  a  large  man,  but  was 
as  strong  as  many  of  the  Indians,  and  he  worked  as 
hard  as  any  one  of  us.  I  have  heard  my  mother  tell 
how  he  helped  with  his  own  hands  to  build  the  church 
and  the  other  houses  of  the  mission,  and  worked  all 
day,  so  long  as  it  was  light,  hardly  stopping  to  take 
time  to  eat.  She  said  he  seemed  to  think  of  no  thing  but 
to  get  all  the  buildings  finished,  and  was  unhappy  until 
that  was  done.  She  saw  him  on  the  day  he  first  came 
from  Mission  San  Diego  with  a  few  workmen  and 
soldiers  to  start  the  mission.  It  was  in  the  afternoon, 
and  the  padre  and  his  men  passed  the  time  till  night 
fall  in  making  a  few  huts  for  themselves  like  those  of 
the  Indians.  The  next  morning,  before  he  would  per 
mit  anything  else  to  be  done,  he  made  an  altar  of 
earth,  which  he  covered  all  over  with  the  green  grow 
ing  grass,  and  there  offered  up  a  sacrifice  to  his  God. 
He  had  with  him  some  children  he  had  brought  from 
San  Diego,  and  after  the  mass  he  baptised  them.  My 
mother  and  some  of  the  Indians  had  been  to  San 

[36] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI 

Diego,  to  the  mission  there,  and  were  not  afraid,  but 
nearly  all  the  Indians  did  not  dare  come  near. 

"As  soon  as  the  mass  was  ended,  the  padre  marked 
out  on  the  ground  the  lines  for  the  mission  buildings, 
and  the  men  went  to  work  making  adobes.  After  a  few 
days,  the  Indians  began  to  lose  their  fear  of  the 
cristianos,  and  it  was  not  long  before  they  were  help 
ing  in  all  the  work  to  be  done.  The  padre  payed  them 
every  day  for  what  they  did;  he  would  give  them 
clothes  or  something  to  eat,  and  they  were  very  glad 
to  work  for  him;  and  it  was  only  a  short  time  when 
a  great  crowd  was  busy  on  the  buildings.  My  mother 
told  me  all  this,  Senor,  for  that  was  long  before  I  was 
born, — more  than  fifteen  years.  She  was  a  young  girl 
then.  My  mother  told  the  Indians  how  good  the 
padres  were  to  them  at  San  Diego,  and  did  all  she 
could  to  bring  them  to  work  for  the  mission.  I  was 
her  first  child,  and,  at  her  wish,  the  padre  named  me 
after  himself — Antonio.  But  all  the  mission  buildings 
were  finished  in  a  few  years,  and  they  have  never 
been  changed  except  by  falling  into  ruins.  I  have  not 
been  to  San  Luis  Rev  for  a  long,  long  time,  for  I  can 
not  bear  to  go  there  and  see  the  poor  old  buildings 
tumbling  to  the  ground — at  least  that  is  what  they 
were  doing  until  Padre  O'Keefe  came  from  Santa 
Barbara  to  live  there  and  take  charge  of  the  mission. 
I  am  glad  it  is  in  his  care;  but  he  cannot  bring  back 
the  old  days,  for  the  Indians  are  nearly  all  gone  now. 

"But  the  Senor  wishes  to  hear  about  the  padre.  I 
think  Padre  Peyri  was  nearly  fifty  years  old  when 
I  was  born,  and  he  had  been  at  the  mission  all  the 

[37] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

time  since  he  started  it,  about  fifteen  years  before. 
How  he  did  love  his  mission,  and  how  proud  he  was 
of  it!  And  he  was  right  to  be  proud,  for  it  was  the 
finest  mission  in  the  country,  and  the  largest  also. 
Every  one  who  came  there  praised  the  padre  for  the 
wonders  he  had  done;  and  that  made  him  very 
happy.  After  his  day's  work  was  over,  he  liked  to 
walk  about  in  the  neighborhood,  looking  at,  and  see 
ing,  everything — the  ground,  the  trees  and  the  sky, 
listening  to  the  singing  of  the  birds,  and  watching 
the  sun  sink  out  of  sight  in  the  west;  but  above  all 
else,  gazing  at  the  mission,  at  the  beautiful  big 
church,  and  the  building  and  arches  around  the  patio. 
Sometimes  when  I  came  to  him  at  his  bidding,  I 
would  see  him  smiling  to  himself,  as  though  he  was 
happy  to  have  been  able  to  raise  up  such  a  good  work 
to  his  Lord. 

"But  alas!  Senor,  those  happy  times  could  not  last 
always.  I  do  not  understand  very  well  the  trouble 
that  was  between  the  missions  and  the  Governor — it 
has  always  been  too  much  for  my  poor  head — but  I 
suppose  the  Senor  knows  all  about  it.  The  Governor 
wished  the  Indians  to  be  taken  away  from  the  mis 
sions,  and  live  in  pueblos  of  their  own;  but  the  In 
dians  did  not  like  it,  nor  the  padres  either;  and  it 
made  trouble  for  many  years.  I  was  too  young  to 
think  much  about  it,  but  I  used  to  hear  the  Indians 
talking  among  themselves  of  what  they  heard  from 
time  to  time.  I  asked  my  father  why  the  Governor 
could  take  the  Indians  away  from  the  missions.  He 
told  me  it  was  the  wish  of  Mexico  that  we  should  not 

[38] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI 

live  in  the  missions  any  longer,  but  have  our  own 
land,  and  work  for  money.  'But  must  we  leave  our 
padre  here,  and  not  see  him  any  more?'  I  asked  my 
father. 

"'We  may  have  to  go  away  from  here,'  he  an 
swered,  'but  the  padre  would  be  our  padre  still,  and 
we  should  see  him  at  mass  and  at  other  times;  but  it 
would  not  be  as  it  is  now.' 

"'I  will  never  leave  here,'  I  said  to  him,  'as  long 
as  the  padre  stays;  I  do  not  want  to  go  off  to  wrork  for 
myself.' 

"But  the  change,  Senor,  was  long  in  coming,  and 
before  it  did  come,  there  was  another  and  a  greater 
change  at  the  mission.  Well  do  I  remember  the  day 
when  first  I  knew,  without  a  doubt,  that  our  old  life 
was  at  an  end.  It  was  a  dark  and  stormy  Saturday  in 
early  winter.  Just  before  nightfall,  a  traveller  arrived 
at  the  mission  from  the  north.  Alone  and  riding 
slowly  a  tired  horse,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  been 
driven  long  and  hard,  he  approached,  gazing  around 
at  the  church  and  all  the  buildings  wTithin  sight.  I  was 
driving  one  of  the  cows  home  from  the  pasture  to 
provide  milk  for  the  padre's  supper,  and  saw  him  as 
he  reached  the  mission.  As  soon  as  I  came  up  to  him, 
he  asked  me: 

'"Is  the  padre  here?' 

"'5i,  Senor.' 

"  'Tell  him  Don  Manuel  wishes  to  see  him  at  once,' 
he  said,  in  a  commanding  tone. 

"Calling  one  of  the  boys  not  far  away  to  look  after 
the  cow,  and  to  take  care  of  the  stranger's  horse,  I 

[39] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

went  to  the  padre's  room  and  knocked.  After  waiting 
a  moment,  and  getting  no  reply,  I  knocked  again. 
Hearing  no  sound,  I  opened  the  door  and  went  in. 
The  room  was  empty,  but  the  door  leading  into  a 
small  side  room,  from  which  was  an  entrance  into 
the  church  for  the  padre's  use,  stood  open,  and  I 
knew  he  was  in  the  church.  At  any  other  time  I  would 
have  hesitated,  but  the  traveller  had  spoken  so 
sternly  that  I  dared  not  delay,  so  went  on  into  the 
church.  There  was  the  padre  kneeling  before  the 
altar  of  our  patron  saint,  San  Luis  Rey,  his  rosary  of 
beautiful  gold  beads  and  ivory  cross  in  his  hands; 
but  so  still  one  would  have  said  he  himself  was  a 
statue.  I  waited  again,  in  hopes  he  would  finish  his 
prayer  and  come  away;  but  the  minutes  went  by  and 
still  he  did  not  move.  At  last  I  stepped  toward  him, 
stumbling  a  little  against  one  of  the  seats  that  he 
might  know  some  one  was  there.  He  heard  the  sound 
and,  rising  slowly,  turned  and  came  toward  the  door 
near  which  I  stood.  When  he  saw  me  he  asked  what 
was  wanted.  I  told  him. 

"'Is  it  come  at  last?'  he  said,  more  to  himself  than 
to  me,  and  walked  slowly,  with  bowed  head,  out  of 
the  church.  I  followed,  closing  the  door  of  the  church 
and  of  the  little  side  room,  and  saw  once  more  the 
traveller,  as  he  rose  from  his  knees,  after  receiving 
the  padre's  blessing.  A  moment  later  he  followed  the 
padre  into  his  room. 

"I  did  not  see  them  again  until  supper  time,  when 
I  had  to  wait  at  table.  They  had  been  some  minutes 
at  supper,  but  were  so  occupied  with  their  talk  that 

[40] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI 

they  had  eaten  scarcely  anything.  The  stranger  was 
speaking  when  I  went  in. 

"'But,  padre,'  he  said,  'what  will  become  of  your 
charge  here,  if  you  carry  out  your  intention?  You 
know  they  look  up  to  you  as  the  head  and  soul  of 
this  great  mission,  and  would  be,  indeed,  as  sheep 
without  their  shepherd,  if  you — ' 

"'My  son,'  interrupted  the  padre,  with  a  look  to 
ward  me,  'we  will  speak  of  that  another  tune.' 

"Nothing  more  was  said  until  after  I  had  left  them. 
I  had  seen  the  look  the  padre  sent  in  my  direction. 
Had  not  it  been  at  a  time  when  every  one  was  fearing 
a  change  of  some  kind  at  the  mission,  I  should  have 
thought  nothing  of  it;  but  at  the  time,  I  knew  we 
might  expect  something  to  occur  almost  any  day;  so 
that  when  he  interrupted  the  stranger,  it  was  only 
after  enough  had  been  said  to  fill  me  with  fear.  I 
knew,  from  what  he  said  about  the  sheep  being  with 
out  a  shepherd,  that  we  might,  in  some  way,  lose  our 
padre.  As  soon  as  I  was  free  I  hastened  out  to  find 
Miguel,  the  boy  who  had  taken  the  stranger's  horse. 
He  had  gone  to  his  house,  a  little  way  from  the 
church. 

"  'Miguel,'  I  asked,  'do  you  know  who  is  this  visitor, 
Don  Manuel,  and  why  he  is  come?' 

'"He  came  from  Los  Angeles,  on  important  busi 
ness  with  the  padre,'  Miguel  replied. 

"'How  do  you  know  he  is  from  Los  Angeles,  and 
that  his  business  is  important?' 

"  'Because,  while  you  were  seeking  the  padre,  Don 
Manuel  was  so  impatient  at  your  delay  that  he  could 

[41] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

not  stand  still,  and  kept  striding  up  and  down  the 
length  of  the  arcade,  muttering  to  himself.  Once  I 
caught  the  words  that  if  the  padre  but  knew  the  im 
portance  of  his  business,  he  would  make  great  haste. 
When  I  led  away  his  horse,  he  told  me  to  take  good 
care  of  it,  for  it  must  carry  him  as  far  on  his  way 
tomorrow  as  it  had  to-day  from  Los  Angeles.' 

"'And  what  is  this  important  business?' 

"'Quien  saber  answered  Miguel,  with  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders. 

"This  was  very  little  to  be  sure,  and  it  served  only 
to  increase  my  fear  that  all  was  not  right. 

"But  I  heard  nothing  further  that  night. 

"The  next  day  was  the  Sabbath.  Nothing  occurred 
before  mass;  breakfast  was  eaten  by  the  stranger 
alone  in  the  padres'  dining-room,  and  the  padre  was 
not  seen  by  any  one  until  the  hour  for  mass.  The 
other  padre  was  here  at  Pala  to  take  the  place  of  the 
fraile  who  was  sick.  The  beautiful  church  was 
crowded,  every  neophyte  casting  a  glance  now  and 
then  at  Don  Manuel,  who  was  seated  in  front,  watch 
ing  the  door  by  which  the  padre  was  to  enter.  But  it 
was  not  until  all  had  begun  to  wonder  what  was  the 
reason  for  his  delay,  and  to  grow  uneasy  and  whis 
per  softly  to  each  other,  looking  at  the  stranger  as 
though  they  connected  him  with  some  trouble  about 
to  befall  the  mission  and  their  padre.  For  in  those 
days  very  little  was  necessary  to  stir  up  fears  of  a 
change  all  knew  might  come  suddenly  at  any  time. 
At  last  the  door  opened,  and  the  padre  came  slowly 
into  the  church.  He  was  pale,  and  looked  sad  and 

[42] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI 

troubled,  but  went  through  the  service  in  his  usual 
manner.  But  when  he  came  to  the  sermon,  it  seemed 
as  if  he  could  not  go  on.  He  did  not  take  a  text  from 
which  to  preach,  but  began  at  once  to  talk  to  us  in 
his  earnest,  gentle  voice,  saying  we  must  look  to  God 
as  our  father,  as  one  who  loved  us  and  would  guide 
us  in  all  this  life.  Padre  Peyri  did  not  preach  to  us 
like  the  fathers  at  other  missions:  he  seldom  said 
anything  about  hell  and  the  punishments  waiting  for 
us  if  we  were  wicked,  but  talked  to  us  and  preached 
about  the  love  of  God  and  His  Son  Jesus  Christ,  and 
our  duty  to  them,  not  from  fear  of  future  punish 
ment,  but  because  we  owed  it  to  them,  as  we  owed 
our  earthly  parents  love  and  respect.  This  morning 
he  was  more  than  ever  solemn,  and  before  the  close 
of  his  short  talk,  many  of  his  listeners  had  tears  in 
their  eyes.  More  than  once  he  had  to  stop  for  a  mo 
ment,  to  regain  control  of  his  voice  which,  all  through 
his  talk,  trembled  and  sometimes  was  hardly  above 
a  whisper.  As  soon  as  the  service  was  ended,  he  left 
the  church,  followed  quickly  by  the  stranger. 

"I  hastened  from  the  choir  and  church  to  the 
padre's  room  to  be  ready  at  hand  in  case  he  should 
want  anything.  He  was  not  there,  but  I  found  him 
in  the  patio,  talking  earnestly  with  Don  Manuel,  as 
they  walked  up  and  down  the  cloister.  As  soon  as  he 
saw  me,  he  told  me  to  give  orders  to  have  the  visitor's 
horse  ready  for  him  immediately  after  dinner.  I  did 
so,  and  on  coming  back  from  the  large  dining-room, 
where  I  told  my  errand  to  one  of  the  mozos,  found 
the  padre  and  Don  Manuel  just  sitting  down  to  their 

[43] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

own  dinner.  The  padre  ate  little;  but  there  was  noth 
ing  else  to  make  me  think  that  anything  was  wrong, 
and  had  not  it  been  for  the  night  before,  and  the 
morning's  mass,  I  should  have  thought  nothing  of  it. 
But  now  every  little  thing  was  large  and  important  in 
my  eyes;  and  although  nothing  was  said  but  what 
might  have  been  said  by  any  visitor  at  any  time,  I 
grew  more  and  more  heavy-hearted.  After  they  had 
finished  eating,  which  they  did  very  quickly,  the 
stranger  prepared  to  leave.  Gathering  up  his  som 
brero  and  zarape,  and  receiving  a  small  package, 
which  looked  like  a  bundle  of  letters,  from  the  padre, 
he  strode  out  to  his  horse,  already  waiting  for  him 
in  front  of  the  building,  the  padre  close  behind  him. 
"I  took  my  place  by  the  horse,  and  pretended  to  be 
looking  at  the  saddle,  to  see  that  everything  was 
right,  while  I  tried  to  hear  what  the  padre  and  Don 
Manuel  were  saying;  but  they  spoke  too  low  for  me 
to  make  out  more  than  a  word  now  and  then.  I  heard 
Don  Manuel  say  'San  Diego;'  'the  Pocahontas,  a  small 
ship  but;'  'Spain,'  and  a  few  other  words  of  no  sig 
nificance.  Padre  Peyri  said  hardly  a  word,  but  stood 
with  bowed  head,  and  eyes  cast  on  the  ground.  At 
last  Don  Manuel  knelt  to  receive  the  padre's  blessing, 
and  with  a  last  low  sentence,  and  an  'adios,'  spoken 
aloud,  as  he  sprang  to  his  horse,  he  dashed  off  down 
the  hill  until  he  came  to  the  mission  road  which  runs 
from  San  Diego  into  the  far  north.  The  padre 
watched  him  turn  his  horse's  head  toward  the  south, 
and  disappear  behind  a  hill;  a  few  minutes  later  he 
came  into  sight  again  as  he  ascended  another  hill 

[44] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI 

until  at  last  he  stood  on  the  top.  With  a  long  look  at 
the  rider  hurrying  away  in  the  distance,  the  padre 
turned  and,  without  a  word  to  me,  went  into  the 
house  and  shut  himself  in  his  room. 

"Senor,  that  was  the  last  time  I  saw  him  at  the 
mission.  Padre  Anzar,  who  had  been  at  Pala  that 
day,  returned  to  the  mission  in  the  afternoon,  and  I 
saw  him  at  supper,  but  Padre  Peyri  did  not  come  out 
of  his  room  the  rest  of  the  day.  Late  that  night  I 
wandered  around  the  church,  so  sad  and  full  of  fear 
of  what  I  knew  was  coming,  that  I  could  not  sleep. 
There  was  a  light  in  the  church,  and  I  was  sure  the 
padre  was  in  there,  but,  of  course,  I  could  not  go  in 
to  see,  and  speak  to  him.  After  a  little  while  the  light 
disappeared,  and  I  went  back  to  my  bed. 

"Although  I  now  felt  certain  I  knew  what  the  padre 
was  going  to  do,  from  what  I  had  heard  and  seen, 
yet  I  knew  nothing  of  the  time,  and  did  not  dream 
it  was  so  near.  But  early  the  next  morning  I  knew  all. 
I  was  on  my  way  to  the  padre's  house,  when  I  met 
Miguel  coming  toward  me  on  the  run.  As  soon  as  he 
came  near  he  cried  to  me : 

"  'Antonio,  el  padre  se  ha  ido  (the  padre  is  gone) ! 
His  horse  is  not  here,  nor  his  saddle.' 

"My  heart  stood  still.  So  all  that  I  had  feared  the 
day  before  was  come  true,  and  our  beloved  padre 
had  left  us.  But  how  suddenly  it  had  taken  place! 
I  thought  of  'San  Diego'  and  'the  small  ship  Poca- 
hontas,'  and  knew  all.  I  had  not  seen  Miguel  since  my 
talk  with  him  two  nights  before,  and  he  knew  nothing 
of  what  had  occurred.  I  now  told  him  everything. 

[45] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

"'Dios  mio!  Our  padre  gone  away,  not  to  come 
back?  Oh,  why  did  he  go?  Why  did  not  he  stay  with 
us?  What  shall  we  do  without  him?'  he  exclaimed. 

"While  Miguel  was  crying  in  this  manner,  I  was 
like  one  stunned,  and  knew  not  what  to  do.  Suddenly 
a  thought  came  to  me. 

"'Miguel,  let  us  follow  him,  and,  if  we  can,  per 
suade  him  to  come  back.  I  know  he  did  not  go  will 
ingly,  but  was  driven  to  it  by  the  Governor  and  his 
people;  for  you  know  he  has  often  said  that  here 
was  his  home,  and  here  he  intended  to  stay  until  his 
death.' 

"  'But,  Antonio,  what  can  we  two  do  ?  He  would  not 
listen  to  us,  and,  besides,  he  must  be  too  far  ahead 
now  to  be  overtaken.  And  the  ship  may  have  left  be 
fore  we  get  to  San  Diego.  You  did  not  hear  when  it 
was  to  sail?' 

"  'No,  but  we  can  come  up  with  him,  I  am  sure,  be 
fore  he  reaches  San  Diego,  if  we  waste  no  time. 
Come,  I  am  going  to  tell  my  father,  and  get  my  horse, 
and  be  off.'  And  I  started  on  the  run  for  my  father's 
house,  which  was  not  far  from  the  church.  I  found 
him  just  leaving  for  his  work,  and  told  him,  in  a  few 
words,  what  had  happened.  He  was  not  so  surprised 
as  I  thought  he  would  be,  for  he  was  an  old  man,  and 
knew  more  of  all  that  was  taking  place  in  the  coun 
try,  than  was  possible  for  me,  a  mere  boy. 

"'Go,  Antonio,'  he  said.  'I  shall  follow  you;'  and  he 
turned  away  into  the  house. 

"I  waited  not  to  see  what  he  would  do,  but  darted 
away,  and,  catching  my  horse,  was  off  as  hard  as  I 

[46] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI 

could  ride.  Before  I  had  gone  many  rods,  I  heard  a 
horse's  gallop  behind  me,  and,  looking  back,  saw 
Miguel  at  full  speed.  I  stopped  to  permit  him  to  come 
up  with  me,  and  then,  without  a  word,  we  went  on 
together. 

"There  are  nearly  ten  leagues  between  San  Luis 
Rey  and  San  Diego,  Senor;  and  as  we  were  deter 
mined  to  reach  there  by  noon,  we  said  very  little 
during  the  whole  ride,  but  urged  our  horses  to  their 
utmost.  After  going  a  few  miles,  we  came  to  the 
shore,  and  went  along  by  the  ocean,  sometimes  on  the 
beach  itself,  sometimes  on  the  mesa  above.  But 
swiftly  as  we  went,  the  sun  was  still  quicker,  and  it 
was  nearly  noon  when  we  came  in  sight  of  San  Diego. 
We  hastened  on,  past  houses,  the  presidio,  and  down 
to  the  edge  of  the  water,  taking  no  notice  of  the  men, 
women  and  children,  who  gazed  wonderingly  after 
us.  Out  in  the  bay,  not  far  from  the  shore,  lay  a  ship 
\vith  sails  spread,  ready  to  start  writh  the  first  puff 
of  wind,  which  began  faintly  to  blow  as  we  reached 
the  water.  On  the  deck  there  were  many  people,  pas 
sengers  and  sailors,  and  among  them  we  saw  our 
padre,  a  little  apart  from  the  others,  and  gazing  to 
ward  the  land  he  was  leaving.  By  his  side  stood  Don 
Manuel,  who  had  been  at  the  mission  the  day  before, 
and  with  them  were  two  of  the  mission  Indians.  I  en 
vied  them,  Senor,  and  wished  I  could  have  been  there 
also,  for  my  heart  was  breaking  at  the  thought  of 
losing  my  beloved  padre.  At  first  he  did  not  notice 
us,  but  when,  with  a  cry,  we  called  to  him,  he  started 
as  he  saw  us  standing  on  the  beach,  with  our  arms 

[47] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

held  out  to  him.  Just  at  that  instant,  we  heard  a  dis 
tant  sound  of  horses  coming  hard  and  fast  over  the 
ground  toward  us.  Looking  around,  we  saw  a  sight 
that  made  us  thrill :  a  great  throng  of  men,  each  one 
urging  on  with  whip  and  spur  the  horse  he  was  rid 
ing.  We  did  not  at  once  know  what  it  meant,  but,  in 
a  second  or  two,  understood.  It  was  a  band  of  Indians 
from  our  mission.  Madly  they  dashed  down  to  the 
shore,  sprang  from  their  horses,  and  fell  on  their 
Igiees — some  on  the  beach,  some  half  in  the  water, 
so  great  was  the  crowd — imploring,  with  heart 
breaking  cries,  our  padre  to  have  pity  on  them  and 
not  leave  them.  There  were  nearly  five  hundred  men, 
and  their  lamentations  were  terrible  to  hear. 

"But  the  sails  had  filled  with  the  freshening  breeze, 
and  the  ship  was  fast  getting  under  way.  The  padre 
gazed  at  us  all,  long  and  sorrowfully,  and,  with  arms 
raised  up  to  Heaven,  in  a  faltering  voice,  which  we 
could  scarcely  hear  from  the  increasing  distance, 
called  down  the  blessing  of  God  on  us.  With  groans 
and  cries  we  watched  the  ship  sail  away,  and  as  it 
faded  into  the  distance,  we  saw  our  beloved  padre 
kneeling  on  the  deck  in  prayer. 

"Senor,  there  is  no  more  to  tell.  We  waited  there 
on  the  beach  until  the  ship  had  disappeared;  then 
slowly,  one  by  one,  found  each  our  horse,  and  set 
out  for  the  mission.  All  night  we  rode,  not  caring  how 
or  when  we  should  get  there.  When  we  reached  the 
mission,  we  found  the  women  and  children  gathered 
together,  waiting  for  us.  As  soon  as  they  saw  us  they 
burst  out  weeping  and  lamenting,  for,  by  our  man- 

[48] 


THE  FLIGHT  OF  PADRE  PEYRI 

ner,  they  knew  our  padre  was  gone.  Silently  we 
turned  loose  our  horses,  and  went  back  to  our  old 
life  and  work,  but  with  sorrow  in  our  hearts.  That  is 
all,  Senor." 

I  had  listened  to  the  old  man  with  great  and  con 
stantly  increasing  interest,  and  long  before  he  had 
finished,  found  myself  with  brush  held  idly  in  my 
hand.  He  had  told  his  story  with  simple  earnestness, 
crossed,  now  and  then,  with  deep  emotion,  as  his  love 
for  the  Franciscan  father,  and  sorrow  at  his  loss, 
came  to  the  surface.  After  an  interval  of  silence,  I 
asked  him  if  he  had  ever  heard  of  the  padre  since 
that  day. 

"Only  two  or  three  times,"  he  answered.  "A  few 
months  afterward  we  had  news  of  him  from  Mexico; 
he  was  then  about  to  return  to  Spain.  Two  years  after 
we  heard  he  was  at  his  old  home  and,  a  little  later, 
that  he  was  gone  to  Rome.  Some  one  told  us  he  lived 
there  till  his  death,  but  we  never  knew  positively. 

Padre  Peyri  is  one  of  the  most  picturesque  figures 
in  California's  mission  history:  the  zeal  he  showed 
in  calling  his  mission  into  existence;  the  intensity  of 
enthusiasm  with  which  he  labored  for  it;  his  long 
career  of  usefulness;  the  love  the  neophytes  had  for 
him;  his  agony  at  the  ruthless  destruction  of  the  mis 
sions — too  great  for  him  to  endure,  old  and  feeble 
as  he  then  was  growing;  and  his  dramatic  departure, 
hastening  away  under  cover  of  the  night,  to  escape 
the  importunities  of  his  devoted  flock:  all  this  had 
been  pictured  with  keen  clearness  in  the  old  Indian's 
simple  tale. 

[49] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

I  thanked  him  for  his  story  as  he  rose  to  go.  Wish 
ing  me  "adios"  with  grave  politeness,  he  walked 
slowly  away,  and  left  me  to  dream  of  the  old  mission 
times,  full  of  color  and  romance,  which  have  given 
so  much  to  the  present  day,  until  the  sun  sinking  be 
hind  the  hills  in  the  west  recalled  me  to  myself  and 
my  surroundings. 

I  fear  I  shall  never  again  see  Pala;  but  I  shall  not 
forget  its  charm  and  beauty,  the  quaint  old  campa- 
nario  and  near-by  buildings,  and,  above  all,  Antonio, 
the  Indian,  and  his  tale  of  mission  life  in  the  old  days. 


[50] 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 


ATHER  ZALVIDEA  was 
in  despair!  After  hav 
ing  lived  for  twenty 
years  at  Mission  San 
Gabriel,  devoting  him 
self  all  that  time  to 
bringing  the  mission  to 
a  condition  of  so  great 
size  and  wealth  that  it 
took  its  place  at  the 
head  of  nearly  all  of 
the  missions  of  Nueva 
California,  toiling  from 
morning  until  night 
with  untutored  neo 
phytes  and  striving  to  hammer  something  of  civilisa 
tion  into  their  heads  —  now  he  was  to  be  removed.  He 
had  seen  this  very  thing  threatening  for  many  days,but 
had  hoped  and  prayed  that  it  might  not  be;  he  had 
mustered  up  boldness  enough  to  address  President 
Tapis  at  Monterey,  beseeching  that  he  might  be  con 
tinued  at  San  Gabriel,  bringing  to  bear  the  weight  of 
all  he  had  done,  and  the  flourishing  condition  the 

[53] 


J  |l|c/anjuan  Capijtrano 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

mission  was  in  under  his  charge.  It  was  of  no  avail. 
The  night  before,  he  had  received  a  letter  by  the  post 
messenger  on  his  way  to  San  Diego,  charging  the 
Father  to  prepare  for  removal  to  Mission  San  Juan 
Capistrano,  his  future  field  of  work.  After  a  sleepless 
night  of  vain  repining,  he  had  risen  early  and  wan 
dered  out  into  his  garden,  back  of  the  church,  his 
favorite  resort  when  in  a  meditative  mood,  or  when 
he  wished  to  escape  intrusion  of  whatever  sort. 

Father  Zalvidea's  garden  was  a  warm,  sunny  place, 
filled  to  overflowing  with  flowers  and  plants  and 
trees.  It  covered  nearly  an  acre  of  ground,  bounded 
on  one  side  by  the  church,  on  part  of  the  adjoining 
side  by  the  Father's  house,  close  by  the  church;  from 
here  the  ground  sloped  gradually  to  the  west,  leaving 
open  to  view  the  San  Gabriel  Mountains,  towering 
high  above  the  plain.  The  Father  had  planned  this 
garden  soon  after  coming  to  the  mission,  and  had 
laid  it  out  with  all  the  talent  of  a  landscape  artist.  In 
the  corner  bounded  by  the  church  and  his  house,  he 
had  planted  most  of  the  trees — olive,  lemon  and 
peach,  and  a  few  palms — disposing  them  skillfully 
for  shade,  while  at  the  same  time  leaving  vistas  of 
the  adobe  church,  golden  yellow  in  the  sunlight;  be 
yond  were  placed  the  flowering  plants — roses  in  im 
mense  numbers,  a  great  variety  of  lilies  of  different 
tints,  a  few  century  plants,  one  of  them  with  its  huge 
flower  stalk  high  in  air,  and  a  large  passion  vine, 
trained  along  the  adobe  wall  enclosing  the  garden  on 
the  west.  These  were  the  most  prominent  of  the 
plants,  brought  from  Mexico  and  Spain,  reminding 

[54] 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 

him  of  his  old  home;  and  interspersed  with  these 
were  a  goodly  number  of  vegetables,  for  this  garden 
was  not  wholly  for  pleasure,  but  served  as  a  source 
of  supply  for  the  Father's  table.  Paths  there  were 
none.  Every  spot  of  ground,  where  there  was  nothing 
growing,  was  hard  and  smooth  like  a  path,  baked  as 
it  was  by  the  sun  after  every  rain.  At  first  the  Father 
had  tried  to  grow  grass  in  some  parts  of  his  garden, 
but  soon  gave  it  up  on  account  of  the  constant  atten 
tion  it  needed,  and  disliking  the  tough  wiry  grass, 
native  to  the  region,  he  trained  his  plants  to  cover  the 
ground,  letting  them  spread  and  wander  much  at 
their  will.  Here  was  his  rest  from  the  many  and 
varied  labors  in  a  Nueva  California  mission;  and 
here  he  was  to  be  found  when  at  leisure,  seeing  if  his 
plants  were  given  the  proper  attention  by  his  gar 
dener,  studying  changes  from  time  to  time  in  their 
arrangement,  or  wandering  about,  now  here,  now 
there,  with  eyes  bent  on  the  ground,  meditating  on 
his  duties,  or  gazing  off  to  the  distant  horizon,  and 
dreaming  of  his  early  life  in  his  boyhood  home. 

But  this  morning  Father  Zalvidea  was  thinking  of 
anything  but  Spain,  or  even  of  his  garden,  as  he 
passed  slowly  back  and  forth  among  the  plants.  His 
thoughts  were  occupied  with  the  instructions  he  had 
received  the  night  before.  One  must  put  one's  self  in 
the  Father's  place,  and  know  something  of  his  life 
and  surroundings,  to  appreciate  the  reason  for  his 
dislike  to  the  proposed  change.  The  missions  in 
Nueva  California  were  lonely,  isolated  spots  of  civ 
ilisation  in  the  midst  of  many  Indian  tribes.  Each 

[55] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

one,  twenty  to  fifty  miles  distant  from  the  neighbor 
ing  mission  on  either  side,  lived,  in  a  great  measure, 
solely  for  itself,  as  it  was  dependent,  in  most  things, 
on  itself  alone.  There  was  communication,  of  course, 
between  the  different  missions,  with  the  president  at 
Monterey,  and  with  Mexico;  but,  occasionally,  weeks 
would  go  by  without  a  single  messenger  from  the 
outside  world,  during  which  time  each  mission  was  a 
little  world  by  itself.  This  tended  to  strengthen  the 
love  for  locality,  which  was  still  farther  increased 
from  the  fathers'  having  no  family  ties,  leading  them, 
each  one,  in  his  celibate  state,  to  become  more  deeply 
attached  to  his  own  particular  field  of  labor,  with  an 
intensity  not  often  seen  in  other  classes  of  men.  Thus 
our  Father  Zalvidea  had  been  so  long  at  Mission  San 
Gabriel,  that  he  had  come  to  look  on  it  almost  as  his 
own,  in  more  senses  than  the  one  strictly  of  being 
its  religious  and  temporal  head.  He  had  carried  on 
the  good  work,  begun  by  his  predecessor,  Father 
Sanchez,  and  had  brought  the  mission  to  such  a  state 
of  prosperity,  that  it  was  second  to  none  in  wealth, 
and  to  but  few  in  number  of  Indian  neophytes.  Now, 
as  he  wandered  around  in  his  garden,  he  gazed  at  the 
buildings  of  his  establishment  scattered,  near  and 
far,  in  every  direction;  at  the  church,  close  by,  which, 
although  not  as  fine  as  those  at  some  of  the  missions 
— San  Luis  Key  and  Santa  Barbara,  for  instance — 
was  a  good  solid  structure,  imposing  in  its  appear 
ance  of  strength;  his  own  abode  adjoining;  the  low 
adobe  houses  of  the  Indians  everywhere;  the  corrals 
of  livestock  on  the  foot-hills  in  the  distance.  Finally 

[56] 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 

his  eye  rested  on  the  vineyards  stretching  away  to 
ward  the  north  and  west,  so  far  that  they  seemed 
without  end.  These  vineyards  were  the  pride  of  the 
Father's  heart,  for  the  culture  of  the  grape  was  one 
of  his  hobbies,  and  here  at  San  Gabriel  he  had  car 
ried  out  his  theories  in  viticulture  so  successfully  that 
his  vineyards,  and  the  wine  and  brandy  made  from 
them,  were  famous  throughout  the  length  of  the  land, 
and  much  sought  after  by  the  other  missions,  as  well 
as  by  Mexico.  No  wonder  the  Father  was  proud  of 
his  success,  for  this  product  was  a  mine  of  wealth  to 
the  mission.  Now,  however,  there  was  no  pride  in  his 
glance,  as  he  looked  long  and  sorrowfully  at  his  vine 
yards;  he  was  thinking  gloomily  that  they  were  no 
longer  his,  and  that  he  must  leave  this  place,  which 
he  was  come  to  love  with  all  the  repressed  passion 
of  his  heart.  It  was  not  as  though  he  were  going  to  a 
poor  and  mean  mission,  as  were  some  of  those  in 
Nueva  California.  Father  Zalvidea  had  been  more 
than  once  to  San  Juan  Capistrano,  fifty  miles  south 
of  San  Gabriel,  and  knew  well  that  it  was  large,  al 
though  not  as  rich  as  it  had  been  at  one  time;  but  his 
was  the  nature  of  the  cat,  which  always  returns  to  its 
old  home.  Father  Zalvidea  knew  a  priest  was  needed 
at  San  Juan  Capistrano,  and  none  was  as  available 
as  himself;  but  he  was  human,  and  this  last  sacri 
fice  of  self  was  more  than  he  could  make  without  a 
murmur. 

At  last  he  returned  to  his  house,  and,  after  break 
fast,  began  to  make  his  preparations.  A  week  later 
saw  him  leaving  the  mission  with  his  personal  be- 

[57] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

longings,  the  most  valuable  of  which  appeared  to  be 
a  heavy  wooden  box,  about  the  size  and  shape  of  a 
brick,  and  which  he  would  not  allow  out  of  his  own 
hands,  but  carried  with  him,  fastened  to  the  pommel 
of  his  saddle.  What  was  in  this  box  no  one  knew  but 
the  Father  himself. 

Behold  Father  Zalvidea  at  Mission  San  Juan  Capis- 
trano !  Although  at  first  murmuring  at  the  change  of 
his  scene  of  labor,  yet,  after  finding  it  inevitable,  he 
had  submitted  to  it  with  all  due  humility,  and  with 
energy  and  even  enthusiasm  had  thrown  himself  into 
the  work  at  hand.  Mission  San  Juan  Capistrano  was 
fallen  away  sadly  from  the  high  position  it  had  held 
ten  years  before :  neophytes  were  still  many,  but  they 
had  been  allowed  to  follow  their  own  devices;  the  re 
ligious  life,  consequently,  was  neglected,  as  well  as 
the  cultivation  of  the  mission  lands.  It  was  a  sad  pros 
pect  that  met  the  Father's  eyes,  the  first  time  he  took 
a  survey  of  the  fields  and  corrals  and  vineyards  of 
the  mission.  On  every  side  his  well-trained  eye  saw 
the  marks  of  lack  of  care  in  husbandry — the  fields  of 
wheat  and  corn  were  only  half  cultivated;  the  live 
stock  in  the  corrals  looked  poor  and  thin;  while  as 
for  the  vineyards — !  Father  Zalvidea  sighed  deeply 
as  he  gazed  at  what  were  the  merest  apology  for 
vineyards,  judging  from  his  high  standard,  and 
compared  them  mentally  with  those  cared  for  so 
lovingly  at  Mission  San  Gabriel.  He  saw,  at  a  glance, 
just  what  was  needed,  and  set  about  bringing  them 
up  to  a  point  somewhat  approaching  his  ideal. 

[58] 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 

But  before  giving  his  attention  to  these  mundane 
things,  Father  Zalvidea  had  to  do  much  for  the  spir 
itual  side  of  the  mission  and  its  people;  for  it  was 
in  a  more  deplorable  state  in  this  respect  than  in 
that  of  material  welfare.  Fourteen  years  before,  Mis 
sion  San  Juan  Capistrano  had  had  the  finest  church 
in  Nueva  California,  the  pride  of  the  whole  country. 
Father  Zalvidea  had  been  present  at  its  dedication, 
the  occasion  of  great  ceremony  amidst  a  vast  throng 
of  neophytes,  and  all  the  Spanish  dignitaries  that 
could  be  gathered  together.  But  the  mission  had  en 
joyed  its  beautiful  church  only  a  few  years  when  it 
suffered  a  most  awful  calamity.  One  Sunday  morn 
ing,  when  the  church  was  crowded  with  Indians  at 
mass,  there  was  heard  in  the  hush  of  prayer,  a  dis 
tant  noise,  like  the  sound  of  a  great  rush  of  storm- 
wind,  which,  a  moment  later,  reached  the  mission, 
and  with  the  rocking  of  the  earth  and  the  rending  of 
walls,  the  tower  of  the  new  church  fell  on  the  people 
below,  shrieking  as  they  fled.  Forty  were  killed  on 
the  spot,  as  well  as  many  wounded.  This  catastrophe 
was  by  far  the  worst  ever  visited  on  the  missions, 
and  it  was  long  before  San  Juan  Gapistrano  recov 
ered  from  the  blow — never,  in  fact,  so  far  as  the 
church  was  concerned,  for  it  was  too  badly  injured  to 
be  repaired,  and  the  fathers  could  not  summon  up 
energy  enough  to  build  another.  Since  that  dire  Sab 
bath,  a  room  in  the  adjoining  building  had  been  used 
as  a  church.  Father  Zalvidea's  greatest  desire,  next  to 
seeing  the  vineyards  brought  up  to  their  proper  con 
dition,  was  to  build  a  new  church,  and  these  were  the 

[59] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

only  mitigating  circumstances  in  his  regretted  change 
of  residence;  but  he  had  been  only  a  few  days  at  his 
new  home,  when  he  gave  up  his  purpose  with  regard 
to  the  church;  it  was  beyond  his  power,  as  he  saw. 
San  Juan  Capistrano  had  been  too  long  on  the  de 
cline,  and  the  neophytes  were  too  indifferent,  to  un 
dertake  this  work. 

So  our  Father  Zalvidea  confined  himself  to  the 
simple  religious  duties  of  his  position,  and  left  such 
grand  projects  as  building  a  new  church  to  the  fu 
ture.  He  had  enough,  and  more  than  enough,  to  oc 
cupy  all  his  time,  and  he  soon  ceased  to  sigh  for  his 
old  home  at  San  Gabriel,  indeed,  almost  to  think  of 
it.  It  was  only  at  rare  intervals  that  he  found  time, 
after  the  day's  work  was  done,  to  take  a  little  pasear 
in  the  mission  garden  in  front  of  the  monastery.  But 
this  garden  was  a  poor  makeshift;  the  plants  were  of 
the  commonest  kinds,  and  were  choked  with  weeds. 
Still,  the  Father  found  comfort  in  it,  and  with  his 
oversight  it  was  soon  a  fairly  respectable  garden.  So 
the  months  flew  by. 

It  was  more  than  a  year  after  Father  Zalvidea's 
advent  at  Mission  San  Juan  Capistrano,  when  he  be 
thought  himself  one  day  of  the  little  wooden  box  he 
had  brought  with  him.  On  arriving,  he  had  depos 
ited  it  temporarily  at  the  bottom  of  a  large  chest 
which  stood  in  his  room,  and  which  was  used  for 
storing  away  papers  and  records  of  the  mission.  Hid 
den  as  the  box  was,  under  piles  of  papers,  the  Father 
felt  tolerably  safe  regarding  his  treasure,  and  im 
mured  as  he  had  been  ever  since,  in  the  busy  affairs 

[60] 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 

needing  his  whole  time  and  attention,  he  had  almost 
forgotten  it.  But  on  this  day  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  hide  it  more  effectually.  Late  that  night,  after  the 
entire  mission  was  still  in  sleep,  he  took  out  the  box, 
placed  it  on  the  table,  and  by  the  light  of  a  candle, 
opened  it  with  a  small  key  which  he  wore,  hung  by 
a  slender  black  silk  cord,  round  his  neck  underneath 
his  Franciscan  robe.  Inside  were  five  gleaming  rows 
of  gold  coins — bright  new  Spanish  onzas,  every  one 
looking  as  if  just  fresh  from  the  mint.  There  were  one 
hundred  and  twenty-five  coins,  each  worth  about  six 
teen  dollars  of  American  money,  making  the  con 
tents  of  the  box  amount  to  two  thousand  dollars — a 
goodly  sum,  indeed,  for  a  poor  Spanish  priest  in 
Nueva  California  to  possess.  Lying  on  top  of  the  rows 
of  coins  was  a  slip  of  paper,  on  which  was  written 
in  Spanish : 

"My  dearest  one,  pray  to  God  and  Our  Lady  to 
bless  your  poor  Dolores." 

Father  Zalvidea  read  the  paper,  then  kissing  it  pas 
sionately,  fell  on  his  knees,  and,  with  trembling  voice, 
offered  up  his  petitions  to  Christ  for  a  blessing  on  the 
loved  one  in  the  far  away  land. 

This  box  contained  the  romance  of  Father  Zalvi- 
dea's  life.  Years  before,  when  a  young  man,  and  ere 
he  had  had  any  thought  of  becoming  a  priest,  he  had 
been  enamoured  of  a  beautiful  Andalucian  maiden, 
who  returned  his  love.  But  Dolores's  father  was  rich, 
and  looked  with  disfavor  upon  poor  Jose  Zalvidea, 
and  at  length  forced  his  daughter  to  marry  a  suitor 
he  had  chosen  for  her — a  man  three  times  her  age, 

[61] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

but  with  a  fortune  equal  to  that  which  was  to  be  hers 
at  her  father's  death;  for  she  was  his  only  child.  Jose, 
heart-broken,  entered  a  seminary  to  study  for  the 
priesthood,  and  gave  himself  up  to  his  new  work, 
striving  to  drown  his  sorrow.  A  few  years  later,  he 
was  selected  to  make  one  of  a  number  of  young 
priests  to  go  to  Mexico.  The  last  time  he  had  heard 
confessions  in  the  parish  church,  a  woman,  heavily 
veiled,  entered  the  confessional,  and,  in  a  whisper, 
interrupted  by  sobs,  asked  for  his  blessing.  At  her 
first  word  he  recognized  Dolores's  voice,  and  with  a 
smothered  cry,  fell  back,  almost  unconscious,  in  his 
seat.  This  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  her.  since 
her  unhappy  marriage,  five  years  before.  Recovering 
himself,  he  asked  her,  coldly,  why  she  was  there. 
With  sobs  she  told  him  she  had  a  small  box  which 
she  would  leave  in  the  confessional  for  him.  On  his 
asking  what  was  in  it,  and  what  she  wished  him  to 
do  with  it,  she  said  it  was  a  small  sum  of  money 
which  he  must  take  with  him  on  his  journey,  and  al 
ways  keep  by  him,  and  if,  at  any  time,  or  when  old 
age  overtook  him,  he  were  in  want,  to  use  it.  "You 
are  going  far  away,"  she  said.  "I  shall  never  see  you, 
may  never  hear  of  you,  again.  I  know  a  priest's  life 
is  one  of  toil  and  hardship,  especially  in  the  new 
land,  and  his  salary  very  small.  It  is  my  own,  Jose," 
she  implored,  "do  not  refuse  me.  Take  it,  and  think 
kindly  of  me,  if  you  can."  Touched  by  her  thought, 
he  promised,  and  should  he  never  need  to  use  it,  he 
would  leave  it  to  the  Church.  Then,  as  she  bowed  her 
head,  in  broken  accents,  he  called  down  Heaven's 

[62] 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 

richest  blessing  on  his  loved  one.  Weeping  bitterly, 
Dolores  arose  and  left  the  confessional.  As  soon  as  he 
had  recovered  from  his  agitation,  Jose  left  his  seat, 
and  entering  the  side  of  the  confessional  where  Do 
lores  had  knelt,  he  saw  an  oblong  parcel,  wrapped  in 
dark  paper,  lying  on  the  floor  far  back  in  the  corner. 
He  took  it  up  and  carried  it  away  with  him.  Not  for 
many  days  after  did  he  have  the  calmness  to  open  it. 
Inside  the  wrapper  was  the  wooden  box  we  have  al 
ready  seen,  on  top  of  which  lay  a  small,  flat  key.  He 
unlocked  the  box,  and  with  eyes  full  of  tears,  saw  the 
glittering  rows  of  gold  coins,  and  the  words  traced 
by  Dolores's  pen. 

But  to-night  Father  Zalvidea  decided  to  put  the  box 
in  a  safer  place.  Going  to  the  window,  and  drawing 
aside  the  curtain,  he  opened  it.  Listening  intently  for 
a  moment,  and  hearing  nothing,  he  returned  to  the 
table,  lighted  a  small  dark  lantern,  extinguished  the 
candle,  and  taking  up  the  box  after  closing  and  lock 
ing  it,  he  left  the  room,  and  walked  softly  through 
the  passage  out  into  the  patio. 

Aided  by  the  feeble  light  from  the  moon,  low  down 
on  the  horizon,  he  hurried  along  the  cloister  to  a 
room  back  of  the  church,  which  had  been  deserted 
and  left  to  itself  for  many  years,  and  was  now  almost 
in  ruins.  Going  into  one  corner,  Father  Zalvidea,  by 
the  light  of  his  lantern,  found  a  small  pick  and  shovel 
which,  that  afternoon,  he  had  left  there  for  this  very 
purpose,  and  set  to  work  to  dig  a  hole  in  which  to 
bury  his  treasure.  Although  the  ground  was  hard,  it 
required  only  a  few  minutes,  after  the  cement  floor 

[63] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

was  broken  through,  to  accomplish  this,  for  the  box 
was  small,  and  to  bury  it  deep  down  was  quite  un 
necessary.  Father  Zalvidea  placed  the  box  in  the 
hole,  covered  it  with  the  earth  he  had  thrown  to  one 
side  on  a  large  sheet  of  paper  he  had  brought  with 
him,  and  then,  carefully  fitting  together  the  pieces  of 
cement  he  had  broken,  he  sprinkled  over  it  some  of  the 
remaining  earth,  to  hide  all  traces  of  the  disturbance 
— a  thing  very  easy  to  do,  as  the  cement  was  so  nearly 
the  color  of  the  clay  soil.  Leaving  the  shovel  and  pick, 
he  wrapped  what  earth  was  left  in  the  paper,  put  it 
under  his  arm,  took  up  the  lantern,  and  wended  his 
way  back  to  his  room,  congratulating  himself  on  hav 
ing  hidden  the  money  safely. 

Well  would  it  have  been  for  the  Father,  had  he  put 
his  box  of  gold  coins  into  the  great,  strong,  securely 
padlocked  chest  standing  in  the  vestry  of  the  church, 
in  which  were  kept  the  money  and  all  the  valuable 
articles — the  gold  embroidered  vestments  and  the 
sacred  vessels  of  silver — belonging  to  the  mission. 
Father  Zalvidea  had,  indeed,  thought  of  it,  but  he  had 
felt  a  strong  repugnance  to  placing  his  own  private 
property  among  that  of  the  church;  so,  although 
much  the  better  way,  he  had  chosen  the  other.  And 
how  could  he  know  there  had  been  a  pair  of  eyes 
watching  him  all  the  time  he  was  busy  in  the  de 
serted  room?  Such  was  the  case,  however,  for  a 
young  mestizo  had  been  witness  of  the  whole  pro 
ceeding.  Juan,  the  seventeen  year  old  son  of  a  Mexi 
can  laborer,  who  had  married  one  of  the  mission  In 
dian  women,  united  in  himself  the  bad  qualities  of 

[64] 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 

both  races,  as  has  so  often  been  the  result  of  such 
crosses.  He  had  grown  up  idle,  indifferent  to  his  par 
ents,  vicious  and  cruel,  leading  astray  the  other 
youths  of  the  mission,  among  whom  he  was  easily 
the  master,  and  causing  his  parents  and  Father  Zal- 
videa  no  end  of  anxiety.  The  Father,  in  fact,  had 
about  made  up  his  mind  that  Juan  must  be  sent  away 
to  San  Diego,  and  put  under  military  discipline.  To 
have  him  longer  at  liberty  was  not  to  be  considered. 
This  night  Juan  had  been  at  the  home  of  one  of  his 
boon  companions,  talking  over  the  plans  for  a  fan 
dango  to  be  given  within  a  few  days.  Coming  along 
leisurely  by  the  wall  of  the  building  forming  the 
east  side  of  the  patio,  he  saw  the  faintest  glimmer 
of  light  shining  through  the  opening  of  a  ruined  win 
dow.  Standing  on  a  stone,  which  he  placed  beneath 
the  window,  he  looked  in  and  saw  the  Father  busily 
at  work  in  the  far  corner  of  the  room.  Curiosity  took 
possession  of  him,  and  he  watched  every  movement 
of  the  worker  until  he  had  completed  his  task,  taken 
up  the  lantern,  and  left  the  room.  After  waiting  a 
few  moments,  to  make  sure  he  was  not  coming  back, 
Juan  sprang  lightly  through  the  window,  and  went 
to  the  corner  where  the  Father  had  been  occupied. 
First  looking  out  into  the  patio  to  see  that  no  one 
was  there,  he  seized  the  shovel,  and  digging  ener 
getically  a  minute  or  two,  struck  the  hard  top  of  the 
box.  Lifting  it  out  he  examined  it  by  the  moonlight 
coming  in  by  the  door,  which  he  had  left  open.  The 
box  was  heavy,  but  there  was  nothing  else  to  indicate 
what  were  its  contents.  Juan  knew  the  Father  valued 

[65] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

it,  from  the  care  with  which  he  had  secreted  it,  and 
surmised,  from  its  weight,  it  might  contain  gold.  Has 
tily  filling  the  hole,  and  making  the  surface  smooth 
as  possible,  in  the  dim  light,  he  climbed  out  of  the 
window,  taking  the  box  with  him.  Walking  swiftly 
on  the  road  for  a  half-mile  farther,  he  came  to  a 
little  adobe  house  where  he  and  his  parents  lived. 
Passing  the  house,  he  hurried  on  to  the  garden  and 
wheat-field  belonging  to  his  father,  and,  reaching  the 
far  end,  he  sat  down  on  the  ground  and  took  the  box 
in  his  lap  to  examine  it  at  his  ease.  For  a  moment  he 
hesitated,  realising  the  magnitude  of  his  crime,  but 
only  for  a  moment.  He  could  not  resist  his  curiosity 
to  see  the  contents  of  the  box;  and,  too,  if  it  were 
gold,  as  he  felt  sure  it  must  be,  he  intended  to  take 
it,  for  Juan  had  long  had  a  great  desire  to  run  away 
to  Mexico  or  Hawaii;  but  venturesome  as  he  was,  he 
could  not  quite  bring  himself  to  the  point  of  carrying 
it  out,  for  his  indolence  drew  him  back  at  the  pros 
pect  of  being  obliged  to  work  his  way. 

His  hesitation  quickly  came  to  an  end,  and  placing 
the  box  on  the  ground,  he  found  a  sharp  stone,  and 
began  pounding  it  with  quick,  hard  blows.  Strong  as 
the  box  was,  it  could  not  long  withstand  such  treat 
ment,  and  soon  it  fell  apart,  broken  at  the  hinges. 
With  a  low  cry  of  surprise,  Juan  gazed  at  the  glitter 
ing  coins;  then,  with  feverish  fingers,  he  took  up  a 
handful  and  examined  them  carefully,  for  he  had 
never  seen  the  Spanish  onza,  and  did  not  know  its 
value.  That  it  was  gold,  however,  satisfied  him;  he 
would  find  out  its  value  later,  for  at  the  first  sight  of 

[66] 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 

it,  Juan  had  jumped  at  the  fact  that  now  he  was  a 
thief,  and  could  not  remain  at  the  mission.  With 
lightning  speed  he  made  up  his  mind  to  run  away, 
and  that  very  night.  Two  thousand  dollars  in  gold  is 
a  heavy  load  for  one's  pocket,  but  that  was  the  only 
way  Juan  could  carry  it,  and  he  quickly  transferred 
it  to  his  two  pockets.  Not  daring  to  go  into  the  house, 
from  fear  of  waking  his  parents,  he  set  off,  just  as  he 
was,  for  San  Pedro,  the  nearest  seaport,  a  walk  of 
nearly  fifty  miles.  But  the  box — he  must  not  leave 
that  lying  on  the  ground  in  plain  sight!  He  must  take 
it  with  him  until  he  could  find  some  place  to  hide  it, 
or  throw  it  into  the  sea.  He  picked  it  up,  and  hurried 
off,  not  noticing  the  slip  of  paper,  which  had  fallen 
out  of  the  box  when  it  was  broken  open.  Walking  all 
night,  Juan  found  himself,  at  daybreak,  still  far  from 
San  Pedro,  tired  out  and  hungry.  But  he  knew  he 
must  keep  on,  if  he  did  not  want  to  be  overtaken  and 
captured.  We  shall  not  follow  him  farther;  it  is  more 
than  certain  he  will  be  relieved  of  his  gold,  when  he 
reaches  San  Pedro,  by  some  friendly  sailor  or  bad 
character  of  the  settlement;  and  he  will,  after  all, 
have  to  work  his  way  to  Mexico,  for  it  would  be  out 
of  the  question  to  return  to  San  Juan  Capistrano. 

Juan  was  frequently  away  for  two  or  three  days  at 
a  time,  and  his  non-appearance  the  next  morning 
caused  no  particular  remark  from  his  parents;  and 
not  until  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day  of 
his  absence  did  anything  occur  to  lead  them  to  think 
he  was  gone.  His  father  had  begun  to  cut  his  wheat 
the  day  before.  This  afternoon  he  was  just  finishing 

[67] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

the  last  piece  of  the  field,  when  he  spied  something 
white  on  the  ground,  almost  hidden  by  the  tall  grain. 
Stopping  his  horse,  he  picked  it  up,  wondering,  and 
with  some  difficulty  made  out  the  writing  on  it. 
Where  had  it  come  from;  to  whom  did  it  belong; 
who  was  Dolores — it  was  too  much  for  his  slow  mind 
to  fathom.  But  of  one  thing  he  was  certain — it  must  be 
taken  to  the  Father;  he  would  know  if  it  was  of  mo 
ment.  And  then  it  was  he  thought  of  his  son  and  his 
absence.  Hardly  in  his  own  mind  did  he  connect  it 
with  the  bit  of  paper;  and  yet  the  suspicion,  once 
aroused,  would  not  be  dispelled.  Finishing  his  work 
as  quickly  as  possible,  he  returned  to  his  house  and 
told  his  wife  what  he  had  found,  and  then  spoke  of 
the  absence  of  their  son  as,  possibly,  having  some 
connection  with  it. 

"I  will  take  it  to  the  Father  to-morrow,"  said  his 
wife,  calmly,  as  became  her  race,  but  with  an  under 
tone  of  anxiety  and  sadness. 

Early  the  next  morning  Juan's  mother  wended  her 
way  to  the  mission,  and  asking  to  see  the  Father,  was 
led  to  his  reception-room.  He  was  sitting  at  a  table 
covered  with  books  and  papers,  reading  from  a  large 
folio  filled  with  the  early  statistics  of  the  mission,  the 
first  few  pages  of  which  were  written  by  the  sainted 
Serra's  hand.  Father  Zalvidea  looked  up  as  the  In 
dian  woman  entered. 

"Good  morning,  my  daughter,"  he  said.  "What  do 
you  wish  with  me?" 

The  woman  responded  with  a  trembling  voice, 
"Father,  my  husband  found  this  in  his  wheat-field." 

[68] 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 

The  Father  took  the  paper  with  negligent  curiosity. 
It  was  rumpled  and  dirty,  far  different  from  its  ap 
pearance  when  in  the  box,  and  he  did  not  recognise 
it.  But  as  soon  as  he  had  smoothed  it,  and  saw  the 
handwriting,  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  crying: 

"Woman,  how  came  you  by  this?  Tell  me.  Why  did 
you  bring  it  to  me?  Where  is  the  box?" 

Terrified  at  the  outbreak  she  had  evoked,  the  In 
dian  fell  on  her  knees  before  the  priest,  and  ex 
claimed: 

"Father,  I  know  nothing  more  about  it  than  what 
I  have  told  you.  My  husband  found  it  yesterday  in  his 
field,  and  gave  it  to  me  to  bring  to  you.  That  is  all, 
Father." 

The  Father  composed  himself  with  difficulty,  and, 
after  a  moment,  spoke  with  his  accustomed  calm 
ness: 

"My  daughter,  forgive  me  for  speaking  so  harshly, 
and  doubting  your  word,  for  I  know  you  would  not 
have  brought  me  the  paper  if  you  had  not  come  hon 
estly  by  it.  But  I  must  see  your  husband  at  once." 

The  priest  got  his  hat,  and,  accompanied  by  the 
woman,  started  quickly  for  her  home. 

Now  the  woman  had  said  nothing  about  the  sus 
picions  her  husband  had  had,  and  which  he  had  im 
parted  to  her.  However  unworthy  of  her  love,  she  was 
Juan's  mother,  and,  Indian  though  she  was,  and  with 
the  inherited  instincts  of  the  savage,  hers  was  the 
natural  love  found  in  civilised  and  savage  alike,  and 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  tell  the  Father  what 
she  felt  must  be  true.  So,  silently,  the  two  hastened  to 

[69] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

her  home.  Juan's  father  was  in  the  garden  back  of 
the  house,  weeding  his  vegetable  patch.  As  soon  as  he 
saw  his  wife  and  the  priest  he  came  toward  them. 

"Pablo,  tell  me  all  you  know  about  this  paper?" 
said  the  Father  abruptly,  without  preamble  of  any 
kind. 

The  man  related  the  fact  of  his  finding  it,  which 
was,  indeed,  all  there  was  to  tell.  And  then,  with 
hesitation,  spoke  of  Juan's  absence. 

The  Father  started. 

"When  did  you  see  him  last?"  he  asked. 

"The  day  before  yesterday,  in  the  afternoon,"  re 
plied  the  man.  "He  said  he  was  going  to  see  Fernando 
Diaz,  who  lives  on  the  mission  road,  two  miles  north 
from  here." 

"Did  you  see  him  when  he  came  back?"  enquired 
the  priest. 

"No,  Father,"  the  man  answered.  "That  is  the 
last  time  we  have  seen  him." 

Father  Zalvidea  asked  the  man  to  show  him  the 
place  where  he  had  found  the  paper,  and  the  two 
walked  to  the  wheat-field.  When  they  came  to  the 
spot,  the  Father  looked  carefully  around  on  the 
ground,  hoping  to  discover  some  trace  of  the  box  and 
its  contents.  Searching  in  the  stubble,  he  did  actually 
find  one  of  the  gold  coins,  but  that  was  all.  The  box 
was  too  large  to  remain  hidden  in  the  field,  and  the 
Father  knew  it  must  have  been  carried  away.  He 
showed  Pablo,  who  had  been  assisting  in  the  search, 
the  coin  he  had  found,  and  then,  as  there  was  no 
object  in  concealment,  told  him  of  his  loss. 

[70] 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 

The  man's  astonishment  at  the  enormity  of  his 
son's  offence  was  profound.  He  was  struck  dumb  for 
some  moments,  but  realising,  at  last,  that  his  son  was, 
in  all  likelihood,  involved,  he  besought  the  Father  to 
have  pity  on  him. 

"Pablo,"  said  the  priest,  "have  you  no  idea  whither 
Juan  is  gone  ?  Have  you  ever  heard  him  say  anything 
to  lead  you  to  think  he  wanted  to  leave  the  mission?" 

"No,  Father,"  he  replied;  for  Juan  always  had  been 
careful  to  say  nothing  of  his  longing  to  go  to  Mexico, 
as  he  knew  he  might  be  watched  should  he  ever 
carry  it  out. 

"I  know  not  what  to  do,"  said  the  priest,  "but  I 
shall,  at  any  rate,  send  messengers  to  San  Diego  and 
San  Pedro.  He  might  leave  either  place  in  some  ship 
for  Mexico  or  Central  America,  for  he  would  not  dare 
to  go  to  San  Luis  Rey  or  San  Gabriel,  as  he  would  be 
discovered  and  sent  back.  But  I  fear  it  will  do  no 
good." 

The  two  returned  to  the  house,  where  the  woman 
still  waited  for  them.  She  saw  traces  of  emotion  on 
the  Father's  face,  and  consternation  written  plainly 
on  that  of  her  husband,  but,  like  a  true  Indian,  asked 
no  questions. 

Father  Zalvidea  commanded  the  couple  to  say 
nothing  about  the  matter,  and  returned  to  the  mis 
sion.  As  soon  as  he  reached  it,  he  sent  off  two  trusty 
neophytes,  on  horseback,  one  to  San  Diego,  the  other 
to  San  Pedro,  with  letters  to  friends  in  each  place, 
relating  the  robbery.  But  no  trace  of  Juan  was  found. 
He  had  had  over  two  days'  start,  and  by  the  time  the 

[71] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

messenger  arrived  at  San  Pedro,  he  was  far  out  to 
sea  in  a  ship  which  had  sailed  the  very  morning  of 
the  discovery  of  the  theft. 

After  this  cruel  interruption,  Father  Zalvidea  re 
turned  to  his  quiet  life  with  a  sorrowful  heart.  He  did 
not  regret  the  loss  of  the  money,  so  far  as  he  himself 
was  concerned,  for  he  had  long  destined  it  for  the 
Church,  as  he  knew  he  could  retire  to  some  monas 
tery  when  too  old  and  feeble  for  further  usefulness; 
but  the  desecration  of  his  secret  was  like  a  painful 
stab.  The  robbery  had  the  effect,  also,  of  calling 
forcibly  to  mind,  once  again,  the  life  and  love  of 
other  days — those  halcyon  days  of  youth,  when  all 
was  sunshine  and  hope.  During  the  rest  of  the  day 
the  Father  was  unable  to  control  himself  for  any 
work  whatsoever.  He  paced  back  and  forth  the  length 
of  his  room;  walked  up  and  down  the  cloister  sur 
rounding  the  patio;  wandered  out  around  the  gar 
den,  and  even  as  far  off  as  the  bluff,  a  mile  from  the 
mission,  from  which  could  be  seen  the  beach  below, 
white  with  foam  from  the  inrushing  waves.  It  was 
many  days  before  he  regained  his  normal  equa 
nimity. 

Father  Zalvidea  lived  at  Mission  San  Juan  Capis- 
trano  nearly  fifteen  years  after  this  episode  in  his 
life  there.  Two  years  after  the  robbery  he  heard  that 
his  loss  was  known  to  the  mission.  Pablo,  while  under 
the  influence  of  too  much  aguardiente,  had  told  of  it. 
Father  Zalvidea  at  once  set  to  work  to  silence  the 
gossip,  and  did  so  effectually,  for  he  heard  nothing 
more  of  it  while  he  remained  at  the  mission.  But  the 

[72] 


FATHER  ZALVIDEA'S  MONEY 

rumor  lived,  although  repressed,  and  for  years  after 
his  departure,  searches  were  made  for  the  money 
which  many  believed  had  never  been  stolen,  or,  if 
recovered,  had  been  reburied  by  the  Father;  for 
Pablo,  babbling  in  his  stupor,  had  not  been  careful 
as  to  accuracy.  In  fact,  as  late  as  1888,  there  were 
people  at  San  Juan  Capistrano  who  still  believed  in 
the  buried  treasure,  and  explored  the  ruins  of  the 
mission,  digging  in  various  spots  for  it.  Why  the 
Father  should  have  left  his  money  buried  there  (sup 
posing  it  not  to  have  been  stolen),  instead  of  taking 
it  with  him  when  he  removed  from  the  mission,  tra 
dition  does  not  state. 


NOTE. — Bancroft:  History  of  California,  Vol.  IV,  p.  624, 
note,  gives  about  all  that  is  known  of  these  famous  onzas 
of  Father  Zalvidea.  Probably  it  will  never  be  known  defin 
itely  what  became  of  them. 

In  alluding  to  the  earthquake  of  1812,  the  writer  has  fol 
lowed  the  commonly  received  assumption,  derived  from 
Bancroft,  that  it  occurred  December  8,  and  that  this  date 
fell  on  a  Sunday.  From  later  research,  it  is  now  believed  to 
have  occurred  October  8,  which  wras  a  Thursday.  This  seems 
more  likely  than  the  date  given  by  Bancroft  (December  8, 
1812,  fell  on  Tuesday),  for  he  himself  says  forty  of  the  at 
tendants  at  mass  were  killed,  the  officiating  priest  and  six 
others  being  all  that  were  saved:  he  does  not  mention  the 
wounded,  if  any.  This  would  be  far  too  small  a  number  for 
a  Sunday  mass  attendance. 


[73] 


LA  BEATA 


LABEATA 

T  WAS  a  bright  sum 
mer  morning  in  the 
month  of  June  of  the 
year  1798.  All  was  bus 
tle  and  excitement  at 
the  wharf  in  the  har 
bor  of  the  town  of  Aca- 
pulco,  on  the  western 
coast  of  Mexico,  for  at 
noon  a  ship  was  to  sail 
away  for  the  province 
of  Nueva  California,  in 
the  far  north.  This  was 
always  an  event  to  at 
tract  the  attention  of 
the  town,  partly  from  its  infrequent  occurrence,  but 
more  especially  because,  in  those  days,  this  northern 
Mexican  province  was  an  almost  unknown  land  to 
the  general  mind.  The  first  expedition  to  the  new 
country,  under  the  spiritual  direction  of  the  beloved 
Father  Serra,  had  been  sent  out  nearly  thirty  years 
before.  But  so  many  and  conflicting  were  the  tales 
of  wars  with  the  Indian  natives,  the  struggles  of  the 


77] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

Franciscans  to  make  and  maintain  a  footing,  the 
hardships  endured  by  all  who  journeyed  thither — 
sometimes  to  the  point  of  suffering  the  pangs  of 
hunger — ,  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  marvellous  tales 
of  the  perfect  climate,  grand  mountain  ranges  with 
snowy  peaks,  fertile  soil  nearly  everywhere,  there 
was  a  want  of  unanimous  opinion  respecting  the 
northern  land.  Whenever,  therefore,  from  time  to 
time,  a  ship  was  sent  from  the  mother  country  to  her 
struggling  colony,  a  great  interest  was  always  dis 
played.  Each  ship  would  be  filled  with  agricultural 
produce  of  all  kinds,  implements  of  labor,  clothing 
of  every  sort,  including  vestments  and  adornings  for 
the  mission  churches,  as  well  as  laborers  and  sol 
diers,  together,  sometimes,  with  a  few  priests  to  swell 
the  number  already  in  the  new  field.  The  ship  pre 
paring  for  her  voyage  this  pleasant  June  morning 
was  the  centre  of  all  such  busy  scenes  witnessed 
many  times  before,  but  which  never  seemed  to  lose 
their  interest  for  the  inhabitants  of  the  town. 

But  this  particular  occasion  was  one  of  more  than 
usual  interest  to  the  people  assembled  by  the  water 
to  watch  the  preparations  for  departure.  An  hour  be 
fore  the  time  set  for  sailing,  a  procession  was  seen 
coming  slowly  down  the  main  street  of  the  town, 
heading  for  the  ship.  It  was  a  strange,  silent,  pathetic 
little  company.  At  the  head  were  two  sisters  of  char 
ity,  following  them  a  score  of  young  children,  evenly 
divided  as  to  sex,  and  all  under  ten  years  of  age. 
They  were  dressed  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  al 
most  severity,  although  with  extreme  neatness. 

[78] 


LA  BEATA 

'Hardly  a  word  was  spoken  among  them  as  they  came 
along,  but  their  eyes  were  busy  glancing  from  one 
side  to  the  other,  noting  everything  about  them,  and, 
in  particular,  the  ship  which  was  evidently  their  des 
tination. 

This  little  procession  was  the  cause  of  the  unusual 
interest  shown  in  the  sailing  of  the  ship.  The  chil 
dren  were  on  their  way  from  Mexico  City  to  the  new 
country,  where  they  were  to  find  homes  among  the 
people  settled  there;  for  they  were  foundlings,  with 
no  one  but  the  Church  to  look  to  for  aid  in  their 
helplessness.  The  Church  had  responded  nobly,  and 
had  cared  for  these  poor  little  waifs  from  infancy, 
and  until  they  were  large  enough  to  be  sent  to  their 
new  home. 

"Caramba!"  exclaimed  a  by-stander  to  his  com 
panion.  "What  will  become  of  the  pobrecitos  in  that 
heathen  country?  I  grow  cold  to  think  of  it,"  he  added 
with  a  shiver. 

"Basta,  Juan !"  said  his  friend.  "What  do  you  know 
about  it?  Were  it  not  for  my  wife  and  little  one,  I 
would  go  away  quickly,  and  be  glad  to  go.  There  are 
Indians  here  and  in  Baja  California,  plenty  of  them, 
and  what  harm  do  they  do  any  one?" 

"All  very  well,"  replied  the  other.  "You  may  not 
believe  it.  But  I  have  heard  tales  of  that  land  which 
made  my  flesh  creep.  Know  you  not  what  the  Indians 
did  to  Father  Jaime  at  Mission  San  Diego?  Would 
you  like  to  have  been  there  then?  I  think  not." 

"You  remember  well,"  answered  his  companion. 
"That  was  over  twenty  years  ago.  There  are  many 

[79] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

more  people  there  now,  and  the  Indians  would  not 
dare  do  such  things  again.  Besides,  these  children  are 
going  to  Monterey,  and  that  is  a  large  town,  I  have 
heard." 

The  children  boarded  the  ship,  and  were  soon 
standing  by  the  taffrail,  watching  the  busy  scene  be 
low,  as  the  men  hurried  with  the  last  loads  of  the 
cargo.  Presently  all  was  done,  the  vessel  weighed 
anchor,  and  slowly  making  her  way  out  of  the  har 
bor,  set  her  course  for  the  distant  northern  country. 

During  the  three  weeks'  voyage  these  children  lost 
much  of  their  shyness  at  their  strange  surroundings, 
made  friends  with  all  on  board,  and  had  a  generally 
royal  good  time — probably  the  first  they  had  ever 
had  in  their  short  lives.  Under  charge  of  the  sisters 
of  the  asylum  whence  they  came,  they  had  had  the 
best  of  training,  which,  although  lacking  the  indi 
vidual  love  of  the  mother  for  her  own  children,  was 
one  to  influence  and  increase  their  religious  instincts, 
and  to  make  them  good,  pious  Catholic  men  and 
women.  The  children,  almost  without  exception,  were 
docile  and  obedient,  venerating  the  sisters  in  charge, 
and  quick  to  respond  to  their  slightest  word.  Among 
the  girls  was  one  to  be  especially  remarked,  from  her 
face  and  its  habitual  expression.  Indistinguishable 
from  the  others  in  general  appearance,  it  was  only 
in  glancing  at  her  countenance  that  one  thought  to 
look  at  her  a  second  time  with  close  attention.  She 
was  not  handsome,  or  even  pretty,  although  not  by 
any  means  homely;  but  her  face  was  almost  transfig 
ured  by  its  expression  of  earnest  piety  and  goodness, 

[80] 


LA  BEATA 

remarkable  in  one  so  young.  Quiet  and  sedate  as  was 
her  habit,  she  was  ever  ready  to  enter  freely  into  the 
fun  and  play  of  the  other  children;  but  even  in  the 
most  absorbing  frolic,  if  any  one  became  hurt  from 
too  much  roughness,  she  was  the  first  to  be  on  the 
spot  to  comfort  the  suffering  one  and  to  ease  its  pain. 

Apolinaria  Lorenzana  (for  so  the  child  had  been 
named  by  her  guardians)  had  become  the  object  of 
the  love  of  the  entire  asylum,  and  of  the  sisters  in 
charge  of  it,  in  particular.  She  was  looked  up  to  with 
respect,  almost  adoration,  for  her  piety  and  devo 
tion  to  all  religious  observances;  and  the  sisters  never 
tired  of  whispering  to  each  other,  prophesying  what 
good  works  she  would  do  during  her  life,  led  and 
taught  by  the  Virgin  as  she  most  certainly  was.  The 
parting  from  her  was  a  sore  one  to  the  sisters,  more 
so  than  to  Apolinaria  herself,  great  as  was  her  affec 
tion  for  them;  but,  in  spite  of  her  youth,  she  was  al 
ready  filled  with  her  work  in  the  new  land  to  which 
she  was  going;  and  she  was  almost  the  only  one  of 
the  little  group  of  children  to  look  forward  with  joy 
to  the  new  life. 

With  fair  winds,  and  under  bright  skies,  the  ship 
sped  on  her  course,  and,  at  the  end  of  three  weeks, 
cast  anchor  in  the  bay  before  the  town  of  Monterey 
and  opposite  the  presidio.  Here  the  scenes  enacted  at 
their  departure  from  Acapulco,  were  repeated,  with 
even  greater  animation,  although  the  number  of  peo 
ple  was  pitifully  small.  It  was  touching  to  see  the 
eagerness  with  which  they  welcomed  the  new-comers, 
strangers  though  they  were;  the  passion  with  which 

[81] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

they  seized  on  letters  from  friends  in  Mexico,  as  soon 
as  they  were  distributed;  the  interest  shown  in  the 
news,  extorted  from  each  of  the  passengers,  as  they 
in  turn  were  questioned,  of  everything  which  had  oc 
curred  in  their  old  home  and  in  Spain,  as  well  as  in 
the  rest  of  the  world.  Such  was  the  hunger  mani 
fested  by  these  home-sick  persons!  The  children 
aroused  quite  as  much  interest  here  as  they  had  on 
their  departure,  and  with  more  reason,  for  this  was 
to  be  their  future  home.  Boys  and  girls  stood  on  the 
deck,  and  noted  everything  going  on.  Such  a  little 
place  Monterey  seemed  to  these  young  people  fresh 
from  Mexico  City — some  dozen  houses  scattered  here 
and  there,  a  church,  the  Governor's  house  and  the 
presidio,  all  of  adobe,  and  all  small  and  insignificant. 
But  the  little  town  made  a  pretty  sight  in  the  warm 
sunshine,  with  the  bay  and  ocean  in  front,  and  the 
hills,  forest-clad,  behind. 

During  the  height  of  the  excitement  incident  to  un 
loading,  Governor  Borica  was  seen  to  approach,  ac 
companied  by  half  a  dozen  soldiers  from  the  pre 
sidio,  and  a  Franciscan  priest,  who  was  come  from 
the  mission,  six  miles  distant,  to  take  charge  of  the 
little  band  of  children,  until  they  should  be  placed  in 
permanent  homes.  Boarding  the  ship,  the  Governor 
and  the  Father  made  their  way  to  the  group,  and 
greeted  the  two  sisters,  both  of  whom  had  been  ac 
quainted  with  the  Governor  before  he  left  Mexico. 
The  children,  instructed  by  the  sisters,  made  a  deep 
obeisance  to  the  Governor,  and  kneeled  before  the 
Father,  as  he  spoke  to  each  in  turn.  A  few  minutes 

[82] 


LA  BEATA 

later  all  left  the  ship,  and  the  priest,  with  the  sisters 
and  children,  set  out,  on  foot,  for  the  mission.  The  way 
was  long,  but  no  one  thought  of  fatigue;  for  it  lay,  for 
the  most  part,  along  the  edge  of  the  shore,  with  the 
ocean  in  full  sight,  the  waves  dashing  on  to  the  rocks 
strewn  thickly  here  and  there,  while  now  and  then 
the  scene  was  varied  with  clusters  of  cypress  trees 
growing  in  fantastic  shapes.  It  was  past  noon  when 
they  reached  the  mission,  a  small  establishment,  hav 
ing,  at  this  time,  about  eight  hundred  Indians,  under 
the  charge  of  the  Father  and  his  assistants. 

The  children,  however,  did  not  remain  here  long. 
During  the  next  two  weeks  homes  were  found  for 
them,  some  among  the  families  at  Monterey,  some 
were  sent  across  the  bay  to  Mission  Santa  Cruz,  and 
some  as  far  as  Mission  Santa  Clara;  so  that,  by  the  end 
of  that  time,  not  one  was  left  at  Mission  San  Carlos, 
the  two  sisters  alone  continuing  there  to  give  their 
aid  in  all  manner  of  work  looking  toward  the  better 
ment  of  the  Indians. 

Among  the  children  finding  homes  in  Monterey 
was  Apolinaria.  Pleased  with  her  appearance,  when 
he  saw  her  at  the  disembarkation,  Don  Raimundo 
Carrillo,  a  well-known  and  powerful  personage  in 
the  new  country,  decided  to  take  her  into  his  own 
family,  consisting  of  himself,  his  wife  and  three  small 
children.  This  was  a  piece  of  rare  good  fortune  for 
Apolinaria,  for  Senor  Carrillo  was  noted  for  his  kind 
heart  to  all  inferiors;  and  with  this  family  she  found 
a  home  than  which  none  could  have  been  happier  in 
the  whole  colony.  Apolinaria  was  not  adopted  by  the 

[83] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

Carrillos — she  filled,  in  some  measure,  the  place  of  a 
servant,  while,  at  the  same  time,  she  was  regarded  as 
one  of  the  family  in  all  domestic  relations,  and  be 
came  a  companion,  in  many  respects,  to  Seiiora  Car- 
rillo,  who  was  an  invalid.  And  beyond  all  this,  Apol- 
inaria  was  under  the  religious  charge  of  the  mission 
fathers,  as  were  all  the  foundlings  brought  to  the 
province.  The  fathers  not  only  instructed  and  admon 
ished  them  in  the  Catholic  faith,  but  kept  informed  as 
to  the  temporal  welfare  of  their  every-day  life. 

And  now  began  a  time  of  happiness  for  Apolinaria; 
busy  all  day,  sometimes  at  the  roughest  toil,  she 
worked  with  her  whole  heart,  full  of  joy  because  she 
was  busy,  and  was  doing  something  for  the  good  peo 
ple  with  whom  she  had  found  a  home.  But  more  than 
this:  the  change  from  her  old  shelter  in  the  asylum 
in  the  great  city  to  a  life  in  the  sweet,  wild  new 
country,  beautiful  with  all  that  was  loveliest  in  na 
ture,  was  one  to  make  a  character  like  Apolinaria 
expand  and  grow  into  a  rounded  simplicity  of  soul 
and  spirit.  Father  Pujol  had  heard  of  Apolinaria's 
piety  on  her  coming  to  Monterey,  having  a  chance, 
also,  of  observing  it  during  her  short  stay  at  the  mis 
sion;  and  he  watched  over  her  with  more  than  usual 
interest,  instructing  her  mentally,  as  occasion  offered, 
in  addition  to  fostering  the  religious  side  of  her  na 
ture.  Apolinaria  attended  the  school  in  the  town  until 
she  was  thirteen  years  old,  and  acquired  the  elements 
of  an  education,  as  much  as  she  could  possibly  have 
any  occasion  to  use  in  after  years  in  the  country 
whither  she  was  come  for  life. 

[84] 


LA  BEATA 

As  Apolinaria  grew  older,  and  after  she  had  ceased 
going  to  school,  she  found,  even  with  her  accustomed 
duties  in  Don  Raimundo's  home,  that  she  had  much 
unoccupied  time;  and  with  her  religious  fervor  she 
thought  long  on  the  matter,  trying  to  find  in  what 
way  she  could  more  completely  fill  the  place  she  be 
lieved  the  Holy  Virgin  had  destined  for  her.  But  in 
vain  did  she  seek  for  this  object;  and  at  length  arose 
slowly  in  her,  becoming  more  and  more  fixed  as  she 
dwelt  on  it,  the  thought  that  maybe  she  had  been 
mistaken  in  considering  that  a  life  in  Nueva  Cali 
fornia  was  meant  for  her;  and  with  the  thought  was 
awakened  the  longing  to  return  to  Mexico  and  be 
come  a  nun.  This  was  during  her  fifteenth  year.  A 
young  girl  with  her  religious  habit  of  mind  would, 
naturally,  turn  to  the  convent,  and  regard  a  life  spent 
in  it  as  the  worthiest,  therefore  the  most  desirable, 
to  be  found  in  this  sinful  world;  and  Apolinaria,  not 
withstanding  her  strength  of  character,  soon  became 
fascinated  with  the  prospect.  She  thought  long  and 
seriously  before  saying  a  word  to  any  one;  for  much 
as  she  now  wished  it,  she  knew  it  would  be  painful 
both  to  herself  and  to  the  good  Carrillos,  and  she 
dreaded  to  disclose  her  plan.  But  at  last,  believing 
she  had  definitely  decided  that  it  concerned  the  fu 
ture  welfare  of  her  soul,  she  betook  herself  to  her 
spiritual  adviser,  Father  Pujol,  and  laid  her  thought 
before  him. 

Now  Father  Pujol  was  a  man — one  of  many  in  this 
imperfect  world — who  had  not  found  his  proper  place 
in  life.  His  father  had  intended  to  take  him,  as  a 

[85] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

partner,  into  business,  toward  which  he  had  a  nat 
ural  leaning,  so  soon  as  he  was  of  sufficient  age;  but 
Senor  Pujol  suffered  reverses  which  swept  away  his 
modest  fortune,  and  left  his  family  destitute.  Rather 
than  receive  aid  from  his  uncle,  and  waiving  his  claim 
in  favor  of  his  younger  brother,  this  son,  although 
with  reluctance,  decided  to  enter  the  priesthood,  for 
he  was  a  singularly  religious  young  man.  But  Father 
Pujol,  in  his  capacity  as  priest,  combined,  in  a  marked 
degree,  the  wisdom  of  the  serpent  with  the  harmless- 
ness  of  the  dove.  He  had  a  deeply  rooted  aversion  to 
the  custom  of  women  sequestering  themselves  from 
the  world  behind  the  walls  of  a  convent;  and  it  had 
been  his  habit,  whenever  opportunity  offered,  to 
dissuade  any  who,  by  so  doing,  might  leave  a  void 
in  the  world.  Indeed,  he  had  been  so  zealous  in  one 
or  two  cases  that  the  suspicions  of  his  fellow-brethren 
had  been  aroused,  and,  eventually,  he  was  selected 
to  make  one  of  a  company  of  Franciscans  to  the  new 
province.  Therefore,  on  hearing  for  the  first  time 
what  Apolinaria  meditated  doing,  he  felt  almost 
angry  with  her,  foolish  and  unreasonable  though  he 
knew  he  was. 

"My  blessed  child!"  he  exclaimed,  "what  has  made 
you  think  of  such  a  thing?" 

"I  know  not,  Father,"  replied  Apolinaria,  "but  it 
seemed  to  have  been  put  into  my  mind  by  the  saints 
in  Heaven  that  that  was  what  I  should  do;  and  I 
believe  that  must  be  what  I  was  destined  for  when  I 
was  found  by  the  dear  sisters,  forsaken  and  starving, 
and  was  taken  to  the  asylum.  Did  not  they  save  my 

[86] 


LA  BEATA 

life  that  I  might  glorify  God  and  the  Blessed  Virgin 
the  rest  of  my  days?" 

"Listen,  Apolinaria,"  replied  the  Father  solemnly. 
"I  know  well  the  state  of  your  mind  concerning  this 
question.  I  have  no  word  of  blame  to  give  you,  and  I 
am  sure  that  the  life  you  would  pass  in  the  convent 
would  be  acceptable  to  God;  one,  indeed,  of  good 
wrork  done  for  others,  in  so  far  as  your  limited  sphere 
of  action  would  permit.  But,  my  dear  child,  consider 
carefully  before  you  decide  to  take  this  step,  whether 
it  may  not  be  a  step  backward  in  your  progress  toward 
a  heavenly  home.  Here  you  are,  a  member  of  a  leading 
family  in  Nueva  California,  in  the  midst  of  duties 
which  you  can,  and  do,  discharge  faithfully,  and 
which  would  not  be  done  so  wrell  by  any  one  else, 
should  you  give  them  up.  Think  of  the  help  and  com 
fort  you  are  to  Senora  Carrillo,  in  her  poor  health, 
with  three  children,  who  would  be  a  sad  burden  to 
her  without  you.  Look  at  the  place  you  fill  in  the 
household,  where  you  are,  in  truth,  the  housekeeper. 
Is  not  your  life  full  of  good  work?  What  more  could 
you  find  in  a  convent?  I  kno\v,  my  daughter,  you 
wish  for  the  life  of  devotion  to  be  found  there,  and 
that  you  look  on  it  as  a  life  of  rapture  and  uplifting. 
That  is  all  very  well  for  many  poor  women  who  have 
no  especial  sphere  of  usefulness  to  fill  in  the  world; 
but,  Apolinaria,  I  should  deeply  mourn  the  day  that 
saw  you  become  one  of  them.  Do  not  think  I  am  de 
crying  the  convent — far  be  from  me  such  a  thing !  But 
I  believe,  I  know,  God  never  intended  that  his  crea 
tures  should  isolate  themselves  in  any  such  way  from 

[87] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

the  duties  among  which  He  had  placed  them." 

The  Father  had  risen  to  his  feet  as  he  uttered  the 
last  sentence,  and,  with  some  agitation,  took  a  few 
steps  back  and  forth  in  the  room.  He  was  an  earnest, 
deep-souled  man,  eager  and  passionate,  almost  to 
the  point  of  inspiration,  when  aroused  from  his  usual 
reserved  manner.  Apolinaria  was  greatly  beloved  by 
him,  and  it  was  with  genuine  pain  that  he  had  heard 
her  wish. 

"Apolinaria,"  he  said  at  last,  after  a  few  moments 
of  silence  on  the  part  of  both,  "hija  mia,  have  I  made 
you  see  this  matter  clearly?  Can  not  you  trust  me  to 
decide  this  weighty  question  for  you?  Is  your  heart 
so  set  on  the  quiet  life  of  prayer,  cut  off  from  so  much 
of  the  work,  without  which,  Saint  James  tells  us,  faith 
is  dead?  Do  not  decide  now,"  he  added,  as  Apolinaria 
made  an  uncertain  attempt  to  speak,  "take  plenty  of 
time,  daughter;  think  it  over  during  the  next  week, 
and  then  come  to  see  me  again  and  let  me  know." 

"I  thank  you,  Father,  and  I  shall  consider  what  you 
have  said  to  me.  Will  you  pray  for  me  that  I  may  be 
guided  aright?" 

"Surely,  my  daughter,"  replied  the  Father,  and 
laying  his  hands  on  her  head  as  Apolinaria  knelt  be 
fore  him,  continued  in  slow,  measured  tones:  "May 
the  Mother  of  God  help  you  to  choose  that  which  will 
ever  be  most  pleasing  and  acceptable  to  her  Son,  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ." 

"Amen,"  whispered  Apolinaria. 

During  the  next  few  days  Apolinaria  thought  of 
Father  Pujol's  words.  It  was  a  great  disappointment 

[88] 


LA  BEATA 

to  her  to  give  up  her  long-cherished  plan;  but  from 
the  moment  of  leaving  the  Father  she  knew  in  her 
heart  what  the  outcome  would  be.  Yet  it  cost  her  a 
pang  of  regret  as  she  thought  of  the  quiet  walls  in 
Mexico  which  she  used  to  look  upon  with  a  hush  of 
awe,  and  dream  of  the  lives  of  peace  and  holiness 
passed  behind  them.  But  she  was  not  one  to  grieve 
long  over  what  cost  some  tears  to  resign,  and  soon 
was,  heart  and  soul,  absorbed  once  more  in  whatever 
her  hand  found  to  do.  Father  Pujol  having  suggested 
the  plan  to  her,  she  now,  for  the  first  time,  took  up 
the  study  of  nursing  at  the  mission  hospital,  instructed 
by  the  two  sisters  who  had  come  with  her  and  the 
other  children  some  years  before,  and  who  had  re 
mained  at  the  mission.  There  were  always  many  pa 
tients  among  the  neophytes,  and  here  Apolinaria  found 
a  work  ready  to  her  hand,  which  soon  claimed  all  the 
time  she  could  give  to  it.  This  was  an  intense  happi 
ness  to  her,  and  the  Father  saw,  with  the  utmost  sat 
isfaction,  that  his  remedy  was  a  good  one. 

Not  long  after  this  Seiior  Carrillo  was  called  to 
Santa  Barbara  to  take  command  of  the  presidio,  and 
knowing  he  should  be  kept  there  for  many  months, 
perhaps  years,  he  decided  to  move  his  family  to  this 
new  place  of  activity,  and  make  it  his  future  home. 
Apolinaria  alone,  of  all  the  household,  was  averse  to 
the  change.  She  had  just  given  herself  unreservedly 
to  her  work  with  calm,  patient  enthusiasm,  that  left 
no  room  for  regretful  thought  for  what  she  had  once 
longed  to  do;  she  could  not  bear  the  idea  of  parting 
from  Father  Pujol,  who  had  been,  indeed,  a  father 

[89] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

to  her,  and  who  had  had  so  much  influence  in  marking 
out  her  life  work.  It  was  with  tears  she  said  the  last 
bitter  "adios"  to  him,  on  the  eve  of  the  departure; 
for  in  those  days  and  in  that  country,  there  could  be 
no  probability  that  she  would  ever  see  him  again, 
less  likely  in  this  case,  as  Father  Pujol  was  far  on 
life's  decline.  But  even  Apolinaria's  sorrow  at  leaving 
Monterey  could  not  destroy  the  interest  and  pleasure 
felt  on  arriving  at  Santa  Barbara,  one  of  the  most 
beautiful  places  in  the  province,  and  at  that  time 
much  larger  than  Monterey.  As  the  ship  came  into 
the  roadstead  which  served  as  a  harbor,  the  town  lay 
spread  out  before  them :  in  the  foreground,  straggling 
along  the  beach  and  for  some  distance  back,  were  the 
adobe  houses  of  the  inhabitants,  about  one  hundred 
in  number,  most  of  them  glittering  white  in  the  bril 
liant  sunlight;  among  them,  somewhat  distant  from 
the  shore,  was  the  huge,  low  building  of  the  presidio, 
frowning  out  over  the  rest  of  the  scene;  beyond  the 
houses,  and  nearly  two  miles  from  the  water,  was 
the  mission,  a  large  group  of  buildings,  from  the  midst 
of  which  rose  the  white  two-towered  Moorish  church. 
Back  of  all  was  the  long  range  of  mountains,  stretch 
ing  off  far  into  the  north,  in  color  a  wonderful  changing 
golden  pink,  streaked  with  palest  blue-grey  in  the 
shadows.  It  was  a  perfect  picture  of  peace,  the  sole 
hostile  point  in  the  whole  being  the  presidio,  which 
served  but  to  accentuate  the  quiet  beauty  of  the  rest. 
Even  when  the  passengers  were  landed  from  the 
ship,  the  quiet  of  the  town  was  not  disturbed  in  any 
great  degree.  It  was  only  when  a  vessel  from  Mexico 

[90] 


LA  BEATA 

arrived,  when  the  Governor  of  the  province  vis 
ited  them,  or  when  news  of  an  Indian  uprising  was 
brought,  that  the  town  awoke  from  its  almost  le 
thargic  calm.  All  this  Apolinaria  found  out  later.  To 
day,  however,  the  undisturbed  quiet  of  the  place 
suited  her  best,  and  she  would  not  have  had  it  other 
wise,  surprised  as  she  was  at  first  to  find  it  thus,  so 
different  from  the  bustle  attending  any  event,  even 
the  slightest,  occurring  at  Monterey.  Don  Raimundo 
and  his  family  were  domiciled  in  the  home  of  Captain 
Jose  de  la  Guerra,  a  friend  of  his,  who  met  him  at 
the  landing  to  render  all  the  assistance  in  his  power. 
The  captain's  house  \vas  a  large  one,  and  Don  Rai 
mundo  was  led  to  this  plan  on  account  of  the  growing 
infirmity  of  his  wife. 

It  did  not  require  a  long  while  for  a  quiet  soul  like 
Apolinaria  to  take  up  once  more  in  the  new  home 
the  broken  threads  of  her  life;  and  before  she  had 
been  there  many  days,  she  had  found  more  than 
enough  to  employ  all  her  time.  At  Monterey  Apoli 
naria  had  been  in  part  servant,  in  part  mistress  of 
the  household,  discharging  the  duties  of  her  some 
what  anomalous  position.  In  Santa  Barbara,  on  the 
contrary,  her  services  as  domestic  and  housekeeper 
were  dispensed  with,  and  she  was  at  liberty  to  give 
her  whole  time  and  attention  to  the  occupation  which 
she  had  but  just  begun  to  pursue  at  Monterey.  She 
offered  her  services  to  the  priests  at  the  mission  as 
a  nurse  for  the  sick  neophytes  in  the  hospital.  The 
winter  before  had  been  a  severe  one  for  the  health 
of  the  Indian  community,  and  there  had  been  an  un- 

[91] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

usual  number  of  cases  of  smallpox — the  most  com 
mon  disease  with  which  they  were  afflicted.  Capable 
nurses  were  hard  to  find,  and  the  fathers  gladly  ac 
cepted  Apolinaria's  offer.  Once  her  qualities  becoming 
known  and  appreciated,  she  was  in  almost  constant 
demand  from  one  end  of  the  town  to  the  other,  for 
she  displayed  a  skill  in  the  care  of  the  sick  that  came 
from  born  aptitude. 

Here  Apolinaria  remained  for  several  years,  en 
grossed  in  her  work  which  had  now  taken  complete 
possession  of  her.  As  she  became  better  known,  she 
had  calls  from  many  high  caste  Spanish  residents 
who  desired  her  services,  and  not  only  those  living 
in  Santa  Barbara,  but  in  near-by  towns — San  Buena 
ventura,  Santa  Ines,  and  as  far  as  Los  Angeles;  and 
her  fame  reached,  at  last,  the  whole  length  of  the 
chain  of  settlements  in  the  province,  from  San  Diego 
to  San  Francisco,  for  she  was  the  sole  person  in  that 
part  of  the  country  who  undertook  the  office  of  what 
is  now  filled  by  the  trained  nurse.  After  a  time,  Apo 
linaria,  finding  there  was  room  for  many  more  like 
herself,  gathered  a  few  young  women  into  a  class 
whom  she  taught  what  she  knew  in  regard  to  nursing 
the  sick,  and  upon  whom  she  called  for  such  assist 
ance  as  they  were  able  to  give. 

One  morning  a  mission  neophyte  came  to  her  with 
a  message  from  Father  Amestoy,  that  he  desired  to 
see  her  as  soon  as  she  could  come  to  him.  Wondering 
a  little  at  the  seeming  urgency  of  the  request,  she 
took  her  way  to  the  mission  at  the  end  of  her  morn 
ing's  visit  to  the  hospital.  She  met  the  Father  walking 

[92] 


LA  BEATA 

slowly  up  and  down  in  front  of  the  monastery,  every 
now  and  then  looking  off  down  the  road  with  anxious 
impatience.  As  soon  as  he  saw  Apolinaria  approach 
ing,  he  hurried  to  meet  her. 

"My  child,"  he  exclaimed,  "you  are  come  at  last! 
I  have  been  watching  for  you  the  whole  morning." 

"I  could  not  come  before,  Father,"  she  replied.  "Did 
you  want  me  at  once?" 

"Yes,  Apolinaria,"  the  Father  answered.  "Late  last 
night  a  messenger  came  from  San  Diego  with  a  letter 
from  Father  Barona,  imploring  us  to  send  you  down 
there.  They  are  in  great  trouble.  The  smallpox  is 
raging;  so  many  neophytes  are  ill  that  help  is  needed 
to  care  for  them.  The  fathers  are  worn  out  with 
watching  and  tending  the  dying,  and  burying  the 
dead,  and  all  the  Spaniards  are  too  occupied  \vith 
their  own  sick  to  be  of  much  assistance.  They  want 
you  to  come.  Will  you  go,  Apolinaria?" 

"Most  assuredly,Father,"Apolinaria  replied  prompt 
ly.  "I  shall  be  ready  to  start  to-morrow  at  daybreak. 
I  cannot  leave  sooner  for  I  must  give  last  directions 
to  my  pupils.  But  how  shall  I  go?  Have  you  made  ar 
rangements  for  me?" 

"You  can  return  with  the  messenger.  I  shall  give 
him  full  instructions.  With  hard  riding  you  can  reach 
there  in  three  days.  Do  you  think  you  can  stand  it? 
I  would  not  ask  it  did  not  they  need  you  so  badly — 
just  as  soon  as  you  can  get  there." 

"Do  not  think  of  me,  Father.  I  shall  not  fail." 

After  a  few  more  words  Apolinaria  left  the  mis 
sion,  and  returning  to  the  town,  made  preparations 

[93] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

for  her  absence,  which  bade  fair  to  be  a  prolonged 
one.  Bitter  regrets  were  felt  and  expressed  by  the 
people,  some  going  so  far  as  to  mutter  against  the 
priest  for  sending  her,  for  "does  not  Apolinaria  be 
long  to  us,  and  why  should  we,  how  can  we,  spare 
her  to  go  so  far  away  for  a  lot  of  sick  Indians?" 

The  next  morning,  an  hour  before  the  sun  was  up, 
Father  Amestoy  and  the  messenger,  each  with  a  horse 
from  which  they  had  dismounted,  stood  at  Apoli- 
naria's  door.  In  a  moment  Apolinaria  came  out  of 
the  little  adobe  house  which  had  been  her  abode 
since  leaving  the  Garrillos,  bearing  a  small  bundle 
in  her  arms.  Kneeling  before  the  Father,  he  gave  her 
his  blessing,  and  then  asked  her  abruptly  if  she  was 
ready  to  start. 

"Yes,  Father,  I  am  quite  prepared." 

"Then  you  must  be  off  at  once,"  he  replied.  "I  have 
given  the  messenger  instructions  for  your  journey. 
You  have  swift  horses.  If  possible,  get  to  San  Fer 
nando  to-night;  that  is  the  longest  day's  ride  you  will 
have,  but  if  too  much  for  you,  or  if  you  be  delayed 
on  the  way,  stop  at  some  rancho  this  side  for  the 
night.  In  that  case  your  ride  to-morrow  will  be  longer, 
for  you  ought  to  get  to  Mission  San  Juan  by  to 
morrow  night;  from  there  to  San  Diego  is  a  short 
distance  compared  with  the  others.  You  will  change 
horses  at  San  Buenaventura,  and  at  the  ranchos  on 
the  way  from  there  to  San  Fernando.  Felipe  knows 
where  to  stop  for  them.  He  has  letters  also  for  the 
padres  at  the  missions,  and  will  see  to  everything. 
And  now,  my  daughter,  may  the  saints  protect  you 

[94] 


LA  BEATA 

and  keep  you,  and  bring  you  back  once  more  to  your 
friends  here,  when  you  shall  be  no  longer  needed  at 
San  Diego." 

When  the  Father  had  ceased  speaking,  he  assisted 
Apolinaria  to  mount  her  horse,  and  with  a  last  "adios" 
she  made  off,  preceded  by  the  messenger,  who  had 
taken  her  bundle  and  fastened  it  to  his  saddle.  The 
priest  watched  them  as  they  hurried  awray  in  a  cloud 
of  dust,  and  then,  breathing  a  blessing  for  Apolinaria, 
returned  to  the  mission. 

It  was  a  glorious  June  morning.  The  air  was  fresh 
and  crisp;  the  water  was  just  taking  on  a  tinge  of 
yellow  from  the  light  of  the  yet  unrisen  sun,  and  the 
sky  above  was  of  the  intensest  blue.  The  road,  for  the 
first  twrenty  miles,  lay  along  the  shore,  now  on  the 
beach  itself,  the  water  not  seldom  lapping  the  horses' 
feet,  now  on  the  mesa  above.  Open  to  all  impressions 
of  the  beautiful  in  nature  as  was  Apolinaria,  she  had 
little  time,  or,  indeed,  inclination,  for  its  indulgence 
this  morning,  for  the  messenger  had  set  the  pace  at 
a  hard  gallop,  and  her  attention  was  taken  up  with 
the  riding.  She  was  a  good  horsewoman,  and  found 
no  difficulty  in  keeping  up  with  Felipe,  although, 
whenever  they  came  to  a  bit  of  bad  road,  he  slack 
ened  his  pace  a  little.  The  sun  was  not  two  hours  high 
when  they  reached  San  Buenaventura,  where  they 
were  received  by  the  fathers,  given  fresh  steeds,  and 
were  soon  on  their  way  again.  With  the  exchange  of 
horses  they  kept  up  their  speed,  and  as  the  hours 
went  by,  the  riders  saw  mile  after  mile  left  behind. 
Whenever  they  stopped  for  horses  at  the  ranches 

[95] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

lying  on  the  road,  they  were  welcomed  by  all,  and  to 
Apolinaria  was  shown  the  greatest  deference,  and 
everything  was  done  to  make  her  long  ride  as  little 
fatiguing  as  possible,  for  her  fame  was  known  to  all, 
as  well  as  the  reason  for  her  present  journey.  Thus 
the  day  passed.  Toward  noon  Apolinaria  began  to 
feel  the  effects  of  her  rapid  flight,  but  she  had  no 
thought  of  stopping,  for  she  was  determined  to  reach 
San  Fernando  that  night.  Slowly  the  day  wore  by, 
and  the  miles  slipped  behind  them;  but  the  sun  was 
set,  and  night  was  over  them  before  they  reached  San 
Fernando.  Two  miles  before  arriving,  they  met  a 
horseman  who  had  been  sent  out  on  the  road  to  meet 
them,  in  case,  as  the  padres  hoped,  Apolinaria  should 
come  that  night.  At  last  they  reached  the  mission, 
where  Apolinaria  was  welcomed  warmly.  But  she 
was  too  exhausted  to  do  more  than  eat  a  little,  drink 
a  cup  of  chocolate,  and  then  retire  for  the  night,  which 
she  passed  in  a  heavy,  dreamless  sleep. 

The  next  morning  she  was  up  with  the  first  faint 
grey  of  dawn,  although  she  was  so  stiff  and  lame  that 
every  movement  caused  her  agony;  but  this  wore  off 
gradually  as  soon  as  she  set  out  once  more  after 
breakfast  with  the  fathers.  We  shall  not  follow  her 
journey  in  detail.  The  second  day  was  easier  as  she  had 
only  seventy-five  miles  to  cover  to  reach  San  Juan 
Capistrano.  At  Capistrano  she  found  the  first  traces 
of  the  epidemic,  a  few  of  the  Indians  being  ill  with 
the  smallpox.  At  Mission  San  Luis  Rey  there  were 
a  much  larger  number,  and  at  all  of  the  settlements 
in  the  region  were  many  patients,  but  only  at  the 

[96] 


LA  BEATA 

southernmost  mission  were  the  people  in  great  straits. 
In  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  Apolinaria  arrived 
at  her  destination,  tired  out,  but  happy  to  be,  at  last, 
where  she  was  so  much  needed.  Here  she  found  a 
scene  of  desolation :  more  than  half  of  the  neophyte 
population  down  with  the  fell  disease;  the  two  fathers 
used  up  with  the  care  of  their  especial  work;  the  few 
Mexican  women  available  for  nurses  without  a  head 
to  take  charge  of  affairs  at  the  hospital.  Apolinaria, 
forgetting  her  fatigue  from  the  long,  hard  ride,  set 
to  work  at  once  where  she  was  most  needed,  in  the 
hospital;  and  with  her  skill  and  experience  she,  in 
a  few  days,  wrought  a  wonderful  change.  It  was  a 
simple  matter,  after  all,  and  the  fathers  had  acted 
wisely  in  sending  for  her,  as  she  supplied  what  was 
lacking — a  head;  and  after  she  had  fitted  herself  into 
her  proper  place,  everything  went  on  smoothly,  and 
Apolinaria  and  her  assistants  were  able  to  cope  with 
the  plague  successfully. 

One  morning,  while  it  was  still  at  its  height,  Apoli 
naria,  on  making  her  visit  for  the  day  to  the  hospital, 
found  a  new  patient.  He  was  a  soldier  from  the  pre 
sidio,  six  miles  away,  who  had  developed  symptoms 
of  the  disease,  and  had  been  dismissed  and  sent  to  the 
mission  hospital,  while  he  was  yet  able  to  bear  the 
journey;  a  handsome  young  man,  hardly  more  than 
a  youth,  with  all  the  fire,  vivacity  and  pride  of  the 
Spaniard,  tempered  in  his  case  with  a  touch  of  sad 
ness,  lending  an  indefinable  charm  to  his  counte 
nance.  It  was  an  attractive  face,  and  so  Apolinaria 
found  it;  but  with  a  second  glance  at  the  young  sol- 

[97] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

dier,  she  had  an  uneasy  feeling  that  she  had  seen  him 
before.  She  had  met  so  few  people  in  her  life,  that  it 
was  not  difficult  for  her  to  remember  the  youth  as  one 
of  her  young  companions  from  the  asylum  in  Mexico, 
who  had  come  with  her  to  Nueva  California  nearly 
fifteen  years  before.  But  if  she  was  a  little  slow  in 
placing  the  stranger  in  her  memory,  he,  on  the  con 
trary,  as  soon  as  his  eyes  rested  on  her,  showed,  by 
the  lighting  up  of  his  countenance,  that  he  already 
knew  and  recognised  her.  As  she  approached  he  held 
out  his  hand,  crying  eagerly: 

"Apolinaria,  tu  me  recuerdas  (You  remember  me)  ?" 

"Surely,  Pedro,  how  could  I  forget  one  of  those 
who  were  so  large  a  part  of  my  life  in  the  old  days? 
But  little  did  I  expect  to  see  you  here,  and  it  grieves 
me  sorely  to  find  you  ill." 

"That  is  a  little  thing,  Apolinaria,  after  many  of 
the  hardships  I  have  been  through  since  we  came  to 
this  country.  But  I  shall  not  talk  of  that.  It  is  a  hard 
land  for  all  who  come.  Tell  me  of  yourself,  Apoli 
naria.  Have  you  found  many  trials?  But  I  think  you 
can  have  none  now,  for  though  you  work  hard,  you 
must  be  very  happy  with  it  all.  You  see  I  have  heard 
much  about  you,  and  the  good  you  have  done  in  these 
last  years." 

"Another  time  maybe,  Pedro,"  Apolinaria  replied, 
"but  you  are  here  to  get  well,  and  I  cannot  stop  now 
to  talk.  I  must  make  my  rounds.  I  shall  see  you  again, 
for  I  come  here  every  day." 

And  Apolinaria  left  him  hastily  to  visit  another 
room  of  the  hospital.  His  gaze  followed  her  until  she 

[98] 


LA  BEATA 

was  out  of  sight;  then,  slowly  closing  his  eyes,  he 
leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

The  next  day  he  was  too  ill  to  leave  his  bed.  His 
attack  was  not  severe,  but  the  disease  seemed  to  leave 
him  without  strength  to  recover,  and  many  days 
passed  before  he  began  to  improve.  During  all  the 
time,  Apolinaria  visited  him  once  or  twice  every  day, 
and  it  was  not  long  before  Pedro  learned  to  know  her 
hours  for  the  hospital,  and  to  watch  and  wait  for  her 
coming.  If,  for  any  reason,  she  was  delayed  in  her 
daily  visit  to  him,  he  fretted  nervously  until  she  ap 
peared.  Now  this,  to  one  in  his  condition,  is  dan 
gerous,  but  how  could  poor,  simple  Pedro  know  it? 
So  he  gave  himself  to  his  one  happiness  of  the  mo 
ment,  without  suspicion  of  whither  it  was  leading 
him.  The  nurses  in  the  hospital  soon  noticed  his  in 
terest  in  Apolinaria,  but  mistook  the  direction  it  was 
taking. 

"How  can  I  help  loving  her?"  he  said,  in  response 
to  some  remark  made  to  him.  "Saw  you  ever  any  one 
so  beautiful  as  she?  I  could  pray  to  her  as  I  do  to  the 
Holy  Virgin,  for  I  think  she  is  as  good.  She  is  ana 
beata,  is  she  not?" 

And  those  who  heard  what  he  said  were  of  one 
mind  on  this  point,  and  the  title  thus  given  to  Apoli 
naria  by  the  man  who  loved  her,  was,  ere  long,  the 
one  by  wrhich  she  became  known  to  all — La  Beata.* 

But  before  Pedro  had  entirely  recovered  from  his 
illness,  he  realised  the  nature  of  his  fondness  for 

*  Literally,  the  blessed  one;  a  woman  who  gives  herself  to 
works  of  charity. 

[99] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

Apolinaria.  Dismayed  and  perplexed,  he  knew  not 
what  to  do,  for,  to  tell  his  love  for  her  seemed  to  his 
simple  eyes  an  impertinence.  That  he  should  dare  to 
love  one  so  immeasurably  above  him — one  in  whom 
earthly  love  was  merged  in  her  love  for  God  and  her 
f ellowmen !  No,  he  must  go  back  to  his  old  life  at  the 
presidio,  just  as  soon  as  he  was  able,  and  leave  her 
with  his  love  unsaid. 

But  love  sometimes  is  stronger  than  will,  and  so  it 
proved  in  Pedro's  case.  He  determined  to  leave  the 
mission  the  next  day,  without  a  word  to  any  one,  and 
this  last  evening  he  had  wandered  out  into  the  olive 
orchard  near  the  church.  It  was  the  close  of  a  hot 
summer  day,  toward  the  end  of  June;  the  sun  was 
just  set  in  the  glowing  western  sky,  and  all  nature 
seemed  to  take  a  breath  of  relief  in  the  cool  evening 
air.  Pedro  had  been  there  only  a  few  moments  when 
Apolinaria  appeared,  approaching  from  the  river  be 
yond  the  orchard,  where  she  had  been  to  see  some  of 
her  patients.  Pedro,  undecided  whether  to  stay  quiet 
and  risk  a  last  meeting  with  her,  or,  as  prudence 
whispered,  to  flee,  hesitated  too  long,  and  she  was 
close  to  him  before  he  awoke  from  his  indecision.  She 
did  not  see  him,  in  the  fast  gathering  dusk,  until  close 
to  the  spot  where  he  was  standing. 

"You  here,  Pedro!"  she  exclaimed.  "But  it  is  not 
well  to  be  out  at  this  time  of  the  day.  Don't  you  know 
you  are  doing  wrong?  I  am  astonished  to  see  you  so 
careless,"  she  added,  smiling. 

It  was  the  first  time  Pedro  had  seen  her  smile  in 
any  but  a  grave,  quiet  way.  Now,  accompanied  as  it 

[100] 


LA  BEATA 


was  with  the  half-playful,  half-deprecating  manner 
in  which  she  uttered  her  chiding,  it  proved  too  much 
for  him. 

"Dona/'  he  said,  "I  am  going  away  to-morrow.  I 
have  struggled  hard  to  leave  here  without  showing 
you  my  heart,  and  I  should  have  done  so  had  not  you 
come  by  this  way  to-night.  Oh,  why  are  you  so  far 
above  me,  that  I  must  think  of  you  as  one  belonging 
to  Heaven  rather  than  earth?  Why  are  you  so  good 
and  beautiful?  For  know,  Dona,  I  love  you,  I  love 
you,"  and  Pedro  poured  out  his  confession  of  love 
in  a  swift  rushing  stream  of  words. 

Amazed  at  such  vehemence  in  one  wrho  had  always 
until  now  shown  himself  the  quietest  of  mortals,  Apo- 
linaria  listened,  as  in  a  dream,  hardly  comprehending 
the  full  significance  of  what  she  heard.  At  last,  with 
a  start,  she  gave  a  slight  shiver,  and  interrupted 
Pedro  in  the  midst  of  his  impassioned  speech. 

"Pedro,"  she  said  gently  and  quietly,  "I  am  sorry 
you  have  told  me  this,  more  sorry  you  should  have 
allowed  such  a  feeling  toward  me  to  take  root  and 
grow  up  in  you,  for  I  am  sure,  my  friend,  you  will 
see  that  I  could  not  entertain  any  such  change  in  my 
life  as  is  implied  in  your  words.  Once,  when  I  was 
younger  than  I  am  now,  and  before  I  had  taken  up 
my  special  work,  I  may  have  had  dreams  of  a  home 
and  love  as  you  are  now  experiencing;  but  it  was 
only  for  a  short  time,  for,  I  thought,  'who  would 
choose  a  poor  outcast  foundling  for  a  wife?'  I  will 
tell  you  how  I  came  to  take  up  the  work  I  have  been 
doing  these  years;"  and  Apolinaria  related  her  youth- 

[101] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

ful  desire  to  enter  a  convent,  and  how  she  was  led 
to  give  herself  to  her  present  active  work.  This  she 
did,  partly  because  she  felt  it  was  only  just  to  Pedro, 
partly  because  she  wished  to  lead  him  away  from 
again  bringing  up  the  subject  of  his  love. 

Pedro  listened  absently  to  her  story.  The  fire  had 
died  out  of  his  heart  with  the  uttering  of  his  con 
fession,  for  he  knew,  even  before  he  began,  how  hope 
less  it  all  was.  How  could  such  an  one  as  Apolinaria, 
engrossed  and  absorbed  in  her  work,  but  raised  far 
above  this  life  and  its  passions,  think  of  so  poor  and 
humble  a  being?  He  had  been  overpowered  with  the 
intensity  of  his  emotion,  and,  his  resolution  broken, 
he  had  hurried  on,  knowing,  poor  fool  that  he  was, 
the  hopelessness  and  folly  of  it.  Like  a  sudden,  severe 
storm,  coming  after  a  day  of  intense,  sultry  heat, 
leaving  the  air  refreshed,  and  the  birds  singing  me 
lodiously  their  evening  hymns,  so  it  was  with  Pedro. 
After  his  wild  outburst,  he  was  once  more  the  quiet, 
reserved  young  man  he  had  shown  himself  to  be — 
the  same,  yet  with  a  difference,  for  his  love  for  Apoli 
naria  had  an  effect  on  him  that  he  felt  all  his  life. 
She  became  to  him  an  example  which  he  followed 
willingly  and  joyfully,  on  their  journey  toward  the 
life  beyond. 

When  Apolinaria  concluded  her  tale,  a  silence  of 
some  minutes  fell  upon  the  two,  broken  by  the  plain 
tive  cry  of  an  owl  as  it  flew  softly  overhead  toward 
the  church.  At  last  Apolinaria  awoke  from  the  revery 
into  which  she  had  fallen,  and  speaking  brightly  and 
cheerfully,  but  with  a  tender  accent,  said: 

[102] 


LA  BEATA 

"You  must  go  in,  Pedro,  and  I  have  a  sick  woman 
to  visit  before  I  finish  my  day's  work.  I  shall  not  see 
you  again,  amigo  mio,  but  I  shall  not  forget  you,  be 
lieve  me.  Live  a  good  life  and  be  happy." 

And  saying  this,  she  held  out  her  hand.  Pedro  bent 
low  and  kissed  it  reverently,  without  a  word.  Then, 
after  one  long,  steady  look  into  her  face,  he  turned 
abruptly,  and  walked  slowly  through  the  orchard  and 
back  to  the  mission.  The  next  morning  he  was  gone. 

Apolinaria  continued  with  her  nursing  at  San  Diego 
for  some  wrecks  longer,  until  the  disease  had  done  its 
worst,  and  then  returned  to  Santa  Barbara.  But  after 
this  she  never  was  allowed  to  remain  there  for  long 
at  a  time.  From  San  Diego  to  San  Luis  Obispo,  and 
beyond,  she  was  in  demand;  and  wrhenever  a  wash 
for  her  assistance  was  sent  to  her,  she  always  re 
sponded.  Not  infrequently,  more  than  one  mission 
would  implore  her  presence.  Then  she  would  visit 
the  one  most  in  distress,  and  send  some  of  her  pupils 
to  the  others.  Thus  she  passed  her  days  in  good  wrork 
toward  her  fellowmen,  finding  her  rewrard  in  the 
blessing  of  God  wrhich  crowned  her  life.  And  ever 
after  her  first  visit  to  San  Diego,  she  was  called  by 
the  name  which  Pedro,  in  his  love,  had  bestowed 
upon  her — La  Beata. 


[103] 


JUANA 


JUANA 


HE  overland  mail-train 
from  San  Francisco,  on 
the  way  to  New  Orleans, 
came  to  a  stop  for  a 
minute  or  two  at  the 
little  old  town  of  San 
Gabriel,  ten  miles  east 
of  Los  Angeles.  It  was 
a  hot  July  afternoon,  in 
the  year  1890;  the  car 
windows  were  open, 
and  the  passengers 
were  gazing  out  list 
lessly  at  the  few  signs 
of  animation  about  the 
station  and  town.  San  Gabriel  is  a  sleepy  old  place, 
with  little  to  interest  the  ordinary  person.  A  traveller, 
passing  through  it,  sees  nothing  to  attract  his  notice 
as  the  train  pauses  at  the  station,  and  he  finds  his 
gaze  wandering  off  to  the  north,  where  it  meets  the 
lofty  San  Gabriel  Mountains,  a  long  line  of  blue-grey, 
shimmering  in  the  heat  of  the  plains.  There  is  much 
beautiful  scenery  around  San  Gabriel,  and  wonder- 

[107] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

ful  canons  among  these  mountains.  But  there  is  one 
object  of  interest  in  the  town  we  must  not  forget  to 
mention — the  old  mission  church,  which  the  traveller 
on  the  train  may  see  standing  near  the  track,  a  half- 
mile  before  coming  to  the  station.  It  is  a  fine  old 
structure,  planted  firmly  and  solidly  on  the  ground, 
and  looking  as  though  it  might  stand  another  century, 
without  showing  more  marks  of  age  than  it  does  now 
after  having  closed  its  first  one  hundred  years.  This 
is  an  object  in  which  every  passer-by,  even  the  most 
indifferent,  finds  an  interest. 

The  engine  panted,  the  passengers  gazed  absently 
at  the  men  exchanging  the  bags  of  mail.  All  at  once 
a  sound  of  singing  was  heard  in  the  distance.  It  was 
a  woman's  voice,  old  and  quavering,  and  the  song 
was  a  weird,  almost  unearthly,  chant  or  dirge  in  a 
minor  key.  Slowly  the  singer  approached  the  station, 
and  reaching  it,  mounted  the  steps  of  the  platform 
and  seated  herself  on  a  bench,  keeping  on,  without 
pause,  her  monotonous  singing.  The  woman  was  a 
Mexican,  very  poorly  dressed,  and  looked  to  be  all  of 
ninety  years  of  age.  This  aroused  in  some  slight  de 
gree  the  interest  of  the  passengers. 

"Who  is  that  old  woman?"  asked  one,  of  a  brake- 
man  who  stood  by  his  window. 

"Oh,"  laughed  the  man,  "that  is  old  Jane.  She  is 
here  nearly  every  day,  when  the  train  comes  in." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  her?  Is  she  crazy?"  asked 
the  traveller. 

"Yes,"  answered  the  brakeman. 

There  was  no  time  for  more.  The  conductor  called 

[108] 


JUANA 

"all  aboard,"  and  the  train  moved  slowly  away,  leav 
ing  the  old  woman  still  intoning  her  chant. 

The  year  1824  opened  with  a  feeling  of  distrust  and 
uneasiness  affecting  all  the  missions  of  Nueva  Cali 
fornia,  from  San  Juan  Capistrano  northward  to  Mon 
terey.  The  fathers  had  held  communication  with  each 
other  many  times  regarding  the  Indians  in  their 
charge,  and  it  was  confessed  by  all  that  trouble  from 
them  was  to  be  feared.  At  the  same  time  nothing  of 
any  tangible  import  had  occurred  to  lead  the  mission 
fathers  to  this  conclusion.  A  few  insubordinate  indi 
viduals  among  the  neophytes  had  been  a  little  more 
insubordinate  than  usual;  several  had  run  away  from 
Santa  Ines  and  Purisima  to  their  old  haunts  and  com 
panions  in  the  mountains;  some  indications  of  a  re 
vival  of  the  superstitious  religious  customs  of  the  In 
dians  had  been  discovered;  once,  at  San  Luis  Obispo, 
among  the  neophytes  living  at  some  distance  from  the 
mission,  a  dozen  men  had  been  found,  one  night,  by 
a  Mexican  servant  of  the  fathers,  preparing  some 
poison  with  which  to  tip  the  points  of  their  arrows. 
This  last  was  ominous,  and  carried  more  weight  than 
all  the  other  signs  of  trouble  brewing,  and  roused  the 
fathers  to  some  activity;  for  the  neophytes,  at  that 
late  day,  in  mission  history,  were  not  allowed  to  en 
venom  their  arrows  without  the  express  sanction  of 
the  fathers.  But  nothing  could  be  learned  from  the 
disobedient  Indians  when  they  were  questioned.  They 
maintained  that  they  were  preparing  for  the  hunting 
and  killing  of  some  large  and  fierce  bears  which  had 

[109] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

been  seen  in  the  neighborhood,  and  which  had  de 
stroyed  some  of  their  cattle.  They  were  permitted  to 
keep  the  arrows,  with  a  reprimand,  and  a  strict  watch 
on  their  movements  was  held  for  many  days.  Nothing 
definite  could  be  discovered,  however,  and  the  fathers 
were  forced  to  wait,  with  anxiety  and  added  watch 
fulness,  for  whatever  was  to  come. 

There  had  been  many  false  alarms,  ever  since  the 
first  settlement  of  the  country,  and  many  slight  up 
risings  of  the  Indians,  who  saw,  with  disfavor,  their 
land  taken  from  them,  and  themselves  obliged  to 
serve  almost  as  slaves,  at  the  missions.  They  were 
nearly  always  well-treated,  and,  in  fact,  were  usually 
tractable,  and  even  more  than  satisfied  with  their 
lot;  but  now  and  then  they  would  be  roused  by  some 
of  the  fiercer  spirits  among  them  to  struggle  against 
this  slavery.  At  such  times,  the  injury  they  could,  and 
did,  inflict  on  the  missions  was  great,  but  they  had 
always  been  subdued  and  forced  back  to  their  state 
of  servitude.  Yet  the  fathers  had  ever  with  them  this 
condition  of  anxiety,  rendered  all  the  greater  as  the 
military  force  in  the  country  was  very  small,  and 
usually  unavailable  at  the  moment  when  needed, 
owing  to  the  distance  between  their  barracks  and  the 
larger  number  of  the  missions. 

Not  quite  three  miles  from  Mission  San  Gabriel, 
toward  the  mountains  in  the  north,  stood  a  little 
adobe  house,  the  home  of  a  young  Mexican,  one  of  the 
men  belonging  to  the  mission,  with  his  wife  and  one 
year  old  child.  Diego  Borja,  this  was  the  man's  name, 
had  been  connected  with  the  mission  ever  since  he 

[1101 


JUANA 

was  a  boy,  serving  in  various  occupations,  first,  as 
altar  boy,  then  as  occasion  required,  as  messenger 
and  servant  to  the  Father,  carpenter,  for  he  was  a 
skilled  artisan,  and  overseer  of  the  planting  and 
gathering  of  the  crops.  He  had  even  been  trusted  by 
the  Father  with  commercial  negotiations  with  mer 
chants  at  San  Pedro  and  Los  Angeles,  selling  to  them 
hides,  which  were  a  valuable  source  of  wealth  to  the 
mission,  and  wine,  famous  for  its  fine  quality.  He 
was,  in  fact,  a  general  utility  man,  on  whom,  on  ac 
count  of  his  reliability  and  versatile  qualities,  the 
Father  depended  greatly.  Father  Zalvidea,  the  senior 
priest  at  San  Gabriel,  had  reason  to  congratulate  him 
self  on  having  Diego  at  his  command,  for  not  often 
is  such  an  one  found  among  the  poorer  and  laboring 
class  of  Mexicans,  combining  the  power  and  ability 
to  serve  in  manifold  ways,  with  a  love  of  work  for 
its  own  sake  as  well  as  for  the  reward  it  brings — 
very  different  from  the  general  slowness  and  laziness 
of  this  class. 

Two  years  before  this  little  tale  opens,  Diego  had 
become  attached  to  a  young  girl  living  at  the  mis 
sion.  Juana  was  an  orphan,  and  had  come  to  Nueva 
California  from  the  same  institution  in  Mexico  which, 
many  years  before,  had  sent  "La  Beata,"  well  known 
and  loved  by  every  one  in  the  country.  Juana  had 
none  of  the  characteristics  of  the  celebrated  Apoli- 
naria,  excepting  only  her  piety,  for  she  was  a  simple 
young  woman,  doing  what  was  given  her  to  do  with 
a  devout,  unquestioning  thankfulness,  happy  that  she 
was  able  to  work  for  those  who  had  befriended  her. 

[Ill] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

She  had  been  at  San  Gabriel  for  some  years,  and  was 
the  teacher  of  the  Indian  girls'  school.  It  was  the  most 
natural  thing  to  occur  in  the  little  world  at  San  Ga 
briel,  that  Diego  and  Juana  should  be  drawn  to  each 
other,  for  neither  had  any  relatives  at  the  mission, 
and  it  happened  that  there  were  no  other  Mexicans 
of  their  own  age  here  at  this  time.  It  was  with  much 
hesitation  that  Diego  had  told  the  Father  of  his  love, 
for  the  priest,  although  one  of  the  kindest  of  men, 
disliked  change  of  any  sort,  were  it  the  most  trivial, 
a  condition  due  as  much  to  temperament  as  to  age, 
although  the  Father  was  now  past  the  meridian  of 
life.  Diego's  great  desire  was  to  have  a  home  for  him 
self  and  his  wife  away  from  the  mission,  for  he  was 
tired  of  the  communal  life  which  he  had  lived  for 
twenty  years.  Nothing  but  the  love  and  respect  he 
had  for  Father  Zalvidea,  and  the  knowledge  that  he 
was,  in  a  measure,  necessary  to  him,  had  kept  him 
from  making  the  change  long  before.  But  at  last  he 
was  resolved  to  hazard  the  matter,  and  with  his  mind 
made  up,  he  broached  the  subject  one  evening,  after 
having  received  the  priest's  orders  for  the  following 
day. 

The  Father's  surprise  was  great,  for,  somewhat 
strangely,  the  thought  that  the  relations  between  him 
self  and  Diego  might  be  altered  or  broken  had  never 
occurred  to  him;  yet  not  so  strangely,  after  all,  for 
after  having  had  his  services  for  nearly  twenty  years, 
what  more  natural  than  his  coming  to  regard  the  ex 
isting  arrangement  to  be  impossible  of  change?  Yet 
why  should  Diego's  marriage  make  any  difference  in 

[112] 


JUANA 

the  present  condition  of  things?  Married  or  single, 
would  not  Diego  and  Juana  continue  to  live  at  the 
mission?  And  so,  somewhat  to  Diego's  surprise,  the 
Father  offered  no  remonstrance  to  his  wish. 

But  when  Diego  asked  him  if  he  might  have  a  piece 
of  the  mission  land  where  he  could  build  a  house, 
and  make  his  home,  the  Father  exclaimed: 

"My  son,  are  you  dissatisfied  with  your  life  here? 
Must  you  leave  me,  and  give  up  all  your  old  occupa 
tions  at  the  mission?  Cannot  you  and  Juana  be  con 
tented  here?  What  shall  I  do  without  you,  for  you 
are  my  right  hand  man,  and  there  is  no  one  here  I 
could  trust  to  take  your  place?" 

"Father,"  replied  Diego,  "I  should  be  sorry  to  feel 
obliged  to  give  up  doing  all  in  my  power  for  you  and 
the  mission;  nor  would  I.  I  do  not  wish  to  go  far. 
The  land  I  want  is  less  than  three  miles  away,  and  I 
could  be  here  at  your  command  almost  as  much  of 
the  time  as  now.  But  if  it  be  wrong  to  desire  a  place 
of  my  own,  which  I  can  plant  and  cultivate,  and  make 
of  it  a  home,  I  will  not  ask  it." 

"No,  Diego,"  answered  the  Father,  "it  is  not  wrong 
to  wish  for  such  a  thing,  nor  can  I  say  you  nay.  I  am 
no  longer  young,  although,  I  thank  God,  still  strong  to 
labor  for  many  years  yet,  I  hope,  for  our  Mother 
Church.  But  I  shall  let  you  do  as  you  like.  You  have 
been  a  good  servant  to  me,  Diego,  and  I  will  not  with 
hold  from  you  your  reward." 

Diego  had  selected  a  piece  of  ground  of  about  ten 
acres,  situated  north  of  the  mission,  and  near  the 
foot-hills  leading  up  to  a  canon  of  the  San  Gabriel 

[113] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

Mountains.  A  line  of  shrubs  and  small  trees  cut  diag 
onally  across  the  land,  marking  the  course  of  a  riv 
ulet,  which,  not  a  half-mile  farther,  lost  itself  in  the 
light,  dry  sand  of  the  plain.  This  tiny  stream  would 
suffice  for  irrigation,  and  it  was  the  particular  feature 
that  had  decided  Diego  to  choose  this  place.  He  at 
once  set  about  clearing  the  land  and  building  the 
house.  With  the  Father's  permission  for  everything 
needed,  he  soon  had  a  number  of  neophytes  busily  at 
work  making  adobes,  and  building  the  walls  under 
his  supervision.  Houses  were  quickly  built  in  Nueva 
California  in  those  days.  They  were  but  plain,  simple 
structures  at  best,  and,  at  the  missions,  an  unlimited 
number  of  workmen  took  only  a  few  days  to  finish 
one. 

Diego  and  Juana  had  a  grand  wedding.  Both  favor 
ites  of  the  Father,  and  Diego,  in  particular,  whom  he 
regarded  rather  as  friend  than  servant,  the  priest  made 
it  a  holiday,  and  the  mission  church  was  crowded  to 
the  doors,  in  the  morning,  at  the  marriage  ceremony. 
In  the  afternoon  the  Indians  and  the  Mexicans  cele 
brated  the  day  with  a  bull-fight,  horse  racing,  and 
various  games  and  diversions,  Mexican  and  aborig 
inal.  The  day  was  one  long  remembered  by  all  the 
inhabitants  of  the  mission. 

The  newly  wedded  couple  took  up  their  abode  in 
the  tiny  adobe  house  Diego  had  built,  and  began  a 
life  of  great  happiness,  little  disturbed  by  affairs  out 
side  their  own  domain.  Life  in  California,  in  those 
days,  was  a  dolce  far  niente  kind  of  existence  that 
was  most  captivating,  although  ruffled  at  times  by 

[114] 


JUANA 

troubles  with  the  many  Indians  on  all  sides.  The  days 
sped  by,  each  one  making  but  the  slightest  notch  in 
the  span  of  life.  Juana  continued  her  teaching,  riding 
to  the  mission  every  day,  where  she  spent  the  morn 
ing.  During  the  rest  of  the  day,  after  returning  home, 
she  busied  herself  about  the  house  in  all  domestic 
duties,  or  in  embroidering,  at  which  she  was  an  adept, 
her  work  being  much  in  request,  not  only  at  San 
Gabriel,  but  at  the  other  missions;  or  in  tending  her 
garden,  where  were  growing  many  vegetables  and 
fruits  for  their  use.  The  birth  of  their  child  brought 
an  added  joy  to  their  already  overflowing  life  of 
happiness.  But  this  kind  of  life  could  not  last  forever, 
even  in  that  idyllic  land  of  Nueva  California. 

Diego  was  given  the  services  of  two  neophytes  in 
cultivating  his  land,  leaving  him  at  liberty  to  con 
tinue  those  of  his  mission  duties  which  could  not  be 
delegated  to  another.  And  toward  the  end  of  the  sec 
ond  year  of  Diego's  married  life,  his  presence  at  the 
mission  became  more  urgent,  and  he  was  sent  off  to 
the  neighboring  missions  with  greater  frequency,  and 
made  longer  stays  than  ever  before.  Juana  began  to 
be  anxious,  and  to  wonder  what  was  the  cause  of 
these  strange  proceedings,  taking  her  husband  away 
from  her,  sometimes  for  nearly  two  weeks  at  a  stretch. 
Questioning  Diego  was  useless,  for  he  was  a  discreet 
servant,  and  told  her,  simply,  that  the  Father's  busi 
ness  called  him  away.  This  was  far  from  satisfying 
her,  of  course,  but  she  could  learn  nothing  more  from 
him. 

Juana,  however,  was  not  dependent  entirely  upon 

[115] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

Diego  for  information  as  to  what  was  going  on  in  her 
little  world,  that  is,  at  the  mission.  She  was  an  acute 
little  person  in  spite  of  her  simplicity,  and  it  would 
not  have  taken  one  as  acute  as  she,  to  see  that  some 
thing  was  disturbing  the  neophytes,  and  tending  to 
make  them  unruly.  One  day,  at  the  hour  for  shutting 
up  the  Indian  children  for  the  night,  a  youth  was  dis 
covered  missing.  Search  was  made,  and  kept  up  far 
into  the  night  and  the  next  day,  but  without  result. 
Ordinarily  this  would  have  excited  no  great  atten 
tion,  but  indications  of  the  troublous  times  of  1824 
had  already  made  their  appearance,  and  every  little 
incident  out  of  the  common  routine  was  looked  upon 
with  apprehension.  The  young  Indian  returned  at 
the  close  of  the  next  day,  and  tried  to  appear  as  if 
nothing  had  occurred.  He  was  taken  immediately  to 
the  Father,  who  questioned  him  long  and  patiently, 
but  with  no  avail.  He  would  say  nothing  farther  than 
that  he  had  run  off  to  the  canon  in  the  mountains  for 
a  day's  idleness;  and  this  he  maintained,  while  the 
priest,  wearied  and  harassed,  threatened  him  with 
flogging. 

Juana  had  heard  of  this,  for  news  in  a  little  com 
munity  like  the  mission  flies  fast.  Several  times,  when 
on  the  way  to  her  work  at  the  mission,  either  as 
teacher  to  the  Indian  girls,  or  as  spinner  and  weaver 
of  the  fine  cloth  from  which  were  made  the  vestments 
and  altar  decorations,  or,  if  it  chanced  to  be  the 
Sabbath,  to  attend  mass  at  the  church,  she  had  no 
ticed  little  groups  of  the  neophytes  talking  eagerly, 
but  in  low  voices;  but  so  soon  as  she  approached,  they 

[116] 


JUANA 

separated  and  went  their  several  ways,  giving  her  a 
glance  of  malevolence,  or  so  it  seemed  to  her,  as  she 
passed  by.  These  things  were  enough  to  show  her 
that  something  was  stirring  the  neophytes;  and  what 
ever  that  something  was,  it  meant,  in  the  end,  danger 
to  the  fathers  and  to  all  the  Mexicans  connected  with 
the  mission. 

But  the  most  important,  and  far  the  most  terrifying, 
indication  of  something  amiss,  was  the  sight  Juana 
had  one  day  while  in  the  canon  near  her  home.  She 
had  taken  Pepito  with  her,  and  wandered  up  the 
canon  to  the  place  where  the  stream  came  down  the 
mountainside  in  a  series  of  little  falls,  rushing  and 
tumbling  among  the  boulders  that  filled  its  path.  This 
was  a  favorite  spot  with  Juana,  and  here  she  came 
frequently  for  an  afternoon  holiday,  sitting  in  the 
shade  of  the  cottonwood  trees  lining  the  brook  on 
either  side,  working  on  some  piece  of  embroidery  for 
the  church,  or,  perhaps,  some  more  humble  domestic 
bit  of  sewing,  or,  in  idle  revery,  watching  the  water 
hurrying  by,  but  never  long  at  a  time  forgetting  her 
baby,  which  was  always,  of  course,  her  companion. 
On  this  afternoon  Juana  had  been  at  her  shady  nook 
by  the  stream,  intent  on  finishing  some  sewing  she 
had  brought  with  her,  before  it  should  come  time  to 
go  home.  Not  a  sound  was  heard  above  the  noise  of 
the  stream,  the  crowing  of  the  child  lying  on  the 
ground,  as  it  plucked  the  yellow  poppies,  being  lost 
in  the  wild  rush  of  the  water.  Chancing  to  look  up 
while  she  was  threading  her  needle,  Juana  saw  an 
Indian  striding  rapidly  toward  the  stream,  which, 

[117] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

reaching  its  bank,  he  crossed,  springing  from  stone 
to  stone;  climbing  the  opposite  bank,  he  made  his 
way  up  the  mountainside,  and  was  soon  lost  to  sight 
behind  the  brow  of  a  near-by  foot-hill.  Screened  as 
she  was  by  the  deep  shade  of  the  trees,  the  Indian  had 
not  seen  Juana,  and  well  for  her  he  did  not,  for  her 
first  glance  told  her  he  was  one  of  the  untamed  sav 
ages  that,  at  that  late  day  in  the  efforts  made  by  the 
missions  for  their  reclamation,  were  still  numerous 
in  various  parts  of  the  country.  Juana  was  well  enough 
acquainted  with  Indian  customs  to  recognise  at  once 
that  the  savage  was  on  some  hostile  errand.  He  car 
ried  a  bow  in  his  hand,  together  with  an  arrow  ready 
to  use  without  an  instant's  loss  of  time.  This  might 
have  meant  he  was  on  a  hunting  expedition,  had  not 
Juana  known  there  was  no  game  of  any  kind,  ex 
cepting  jack-rabbits  and  rattlesnakes,  within  a  radius 
of  several  miles  from  the  mission;  for  the  neophytes 
had,  long  before,  killed  everything  near.  This  fact  as 
well  as  his  quick  gait,  showed  her  he  was  not  on  any 
peaceful  business. 

With  a  prayer  of  thankfulness  in  her  heart  (for 
there  was  little  doubt  the  Indian  would  have  killed 
her,  had  he  seen  her)  Juana  seized  her  work,  and, 
with  the  baby  in  her  arms,  made  all  possible  haste 
to  her  home.  Her  heart  was  in  her  mouth  more  than 
once,  when  she  fancied  she  saw  a  savage  lurking 
among  the  trees,  or  behind  some  big  boulder;  but  she 
reached  the  house  without  further  incident. 

Diego,  who  had  been  away  on  one  of  his  long  ab 
sences,  arrived  home  that  same  night.  When  Juana 

[118] 


JUANA 

related  to  him,  almost  at  the  first  moment  of  greeting, 
the  incident  of  the  afternoon,  Diego  listened  in  sur 
prise  and  alarm,  and  when  she  had  finished  said: 

"Juana,  you  must  not  go  there  again;  it  is  most 
dangerous.  But  I  do  not  think  you  will  after  what 
happened  to-day.  I  must  go  back  to  the  mission,  and 
tell  the  Father  what  you  saw." 

"Tell  me,  Diego,"  implored  Juana.  "I  know  there  is 
some  trouble  with  the  Indians.  Is  it  very  serious?  Are 
we  all  in  danger?  Remember  what  they  did  to  Father 
Jaime  at  San  Diego.  But  they  could  not  do  any  harm 
to  the  fathers  now.  We  are  too  strong  for  them." 

"No,  Juana,"  answered  Diego,  "the  fathers  are  in 
no  personal  danger,  I  think.  And  the  trouble  is  not 
here,  so  much  as  farther  north,  at  Santa  Barbara,  and 
the  missions  near  there.  But  the  fathers  at  all  the  mis 
sions  are  on  the  watch,  for  no  one  knows  just  where 
or  when  the  trouble  will  break  forth.  The  neophytes 
are  dissatisfied,  and  will  not  obey  their  masters.  But 
you  must  say  nothing  of  this  to  any  one.  The  Father 
wishes  to  keep  it  as  quiet  as  possible,  so  as  to  alarm 
no  one  at  the  mission,  and  to  have  none  of  the  Indians 
think  they  are  suspected.  I  must  go." 

And  Diego  set  out  for  the  mission,  from  whence  he 
did  not  return  until  several  hours  later.  The  next  day 
saw  him  off  again  on  one  of  his  long  absences,  bear 
ing  letters  from  the  Father  to  the  priests  at  Capis- 
trano,  San  Fernando  and  the  more  distant  Santa 
Barbara.  *  * 

During  his  absence,  Juana  hardly  dared  stir  from 
the  house,  except  to  take  the  beaten  road  to  the  mis- 

[119] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

sion;  and  even  this  required  a  mustering  up  of  her 
courage  every  time  she  made  the  short  journey,  al 
though  she  knew  a  foe  would  be  very  unlikely  to 
venture  into  so  exposed  a  position.  On  the  day  of 
Diego's  departure,  Father  Zalvidea  had  made  her  re 
late  to  him  every  detail  of  her  episode  in  the  canon. 
He  feared  the  worst,  but  made  light  of  it  to  her.  At 
the  same  time  he  told  her  she  might  stay  at  the  mis 
sion  if  she  feared  to  be  alone,  until  such  time  as  the 
danger  should  be  past.  But  Juana  could  not  make  up 
her  mind  to  leave  her  home,  her  flowers,  which  she 
tended  so  carefully,  and  her  garden,  which,  without 
her  daily  oversight,  would  be  ruined.  Thanking  the 
Father,  she  said  she  would  stay  on  at  home,  unless 
something  more  should  occur. 

Day  after  day  went  by  without  further  incident  of 
any  kind.  Indeed,  the  presence  of  the  Indian  in  the 
canon  appeared  to  be  the  last  of  the  series  of  occur 
rences  to  cause  alarm;  and  the  anxiety  of  the  Father 
and  the  Mexicans  was  quieted.  Still,  as  Diego  did  not 
return,  they  knew  that  affairs  at  the  other  missions 
were  not  in  an  altogether  favorable  condition. 

But  at  last,  after  an  absence  of  nearly  three  weeks, 
Diego  returned,  and  brought  tidings  boding  no  good. 
There  was  no  trouble  apparent  impending  at  San 
Juan  Capistrano,  and  but  little  at  San  Fernando;  but 
at  Santa  Barbara,  and  especially  at  Santa  Ines,  to 
which  missions  Diego  had  been  sent  by  the  priests  at 
Santa  Barbara,  much  trouble  was  feared,  and  at  any 
moment.  The  neophytes  were  watched  closely,  but 
there  were  many  gentiles  in  the  mountains  around, 

[120] 


JUANA 

who  had  stirred  up  the  mission  Indians  to  a  state  of 
great  excitement.  However,  there  was  nothing  to  do, 
except  to  keep  a  strict  guard. 

Juana  was  overjoyed  to  see  Diego.  She  had  kept  on 
with  her  daily  work  at  the  mission  and  at  home,  and, 
as  nothing  further  had  occurred  of  an  alarming  na 
ture,  she  had,  by  degrees,  lost  much  of  her  terror.  Her 
anxiety  for  Diego,  too,  had  helped  to  draw  away  her 
thought  from  herself  and  her  situation.  That  was  a 
happy  evening  for  Juana,  and  her  happiness  was  in 
creased  when  Diego  told  her  he  would  not  be  obliged 
to  leave  again  for  some  weeks,  unless  the  outbreak 
that  was  feared  should  materialise  to  call  him  away. 

Well  for  us  we  know  not  what  the  morrow  may 
bring  forth !  Nothing  disturbed  Juana's  happiness  that 
night,  and  she  fell  asleep  with  a  sigh  of  content,  and 
a  heart  lightened  of  all  fear  and  anxiety.  The  next 
morning  Diego  went  to  work  in  the  garden  not  far 
from  the  house,  leaving  Juana  busy  with  her  domestic 
duties.  The  day  after  Diego's  return  from  one  of  his 
long  absences  was  always  a  holiday  for  Juana,  one 
of  the  mission  women  taking  her  place  as  teacher. 
Happy  and  gay  she  cleared  away  the  breakfast,  swept 
the  room,  and  washed  and  dressed  the  baby,  now  and 
then  bursting  into  song,  from  sheer  excess  of  joy.  It 
was  toward  the  middle  of  the  morning,  when  she 
heard  a  sudden  cry  from  Diego.  Springing  up,  she 
hastened  out  of  the  house,  and  ran  to  the  spot  where 
she  had  seen  her  husband  at  work  a  few  moments  be 
fore.  It  was  not  until  she  had  reached  the  place  that 
she  discovered  Diego,  prone  on  the  ground  where  he 

[121] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

had  fallen,  near  the  vines  he  had  been  pruning.  Juana 
knelt  and  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck,  when  she 
saw  the  arrow  from  which  he  had  fallen,  buried  deep 
in  his  breast. 

"Juana,  querida,"  he  whispered  hoarsely,  "get  Pe- 
pito  and  fly  to  the  mission.  Tell  the  Father.  Leave  me; 
I  am  past  help.  The  arrow  was  poisoned.  Go  at  once." 

"Diego,  Diego,  I  cannot  go;  let  me  die  here  with 
you.  Let  the  Indian  kill  me,  too.  Where  is  he?"  and 
she  looked  wildly  around. 

"He  is  hiding  among  the  trees  by  the  stream.  Juana, 
go,  I  command  you.  Santa  Maria !  Save  her  from  the 
cruel  savage,  who  may  be,  even  now,  watching  us." 

Enfolding  her  in  a  close  embrace,  he  kissed  her 
many  times,  then,  with  his  remaining  strength,  pushed 
her  from  him  and  motioned  her  to  go. 

Juana  did  not  move.  She  clung  to  Diego,  weeping 
bitterly,  as  she  whispered  endearing  names.  The  time 
of  delay,  however,  was  not  long,  for  the  Indian's  aim 
had  been  true;  and  without  the  aid  of  the  poison  with 
which  the  arrow  was  tipped,  Diego  was  doomed.  Sud 
denly  Juana  felt  a  tremor  pass  through  him;  his  head 
fell  back  on  the  ground,  and  with  a  deep  sigh,  he 
closed  his  eyes  and  was  dead. 

Juana  gazed  long  on  the  inanimate  form  of  her 
husband,  then,  with  a  last  parting  kiss,  turned  toward 
the  house.  She  thought  now  of  Pepito  for  the  first 
time  since  she  had  left  him,  and  she  quickened  her 
steps,  going  faster  as  she  neared  the  house,  and  her 
fear  of  the  hidden  savage  came  over  her.  The  time 
she  had  been  absent  was  short,  though  it  seemed 

[122] 


JUANA 

hours  to  her,  and  she  found  the  baby  playing  in  the 
sunlight  that  streamed  in  the  window.  Snatching  him 
up  convulsively,  she  dashed  out  of  the  house,  and  ran 
at  her  utmost  speed  along  the  road  that  led  to  the 
mission,  nearly  three  miles  away.  Her  horse  was 
tethered  in  the  field,  not  one  hundred  yards  from  her, 
but  she  was  too  frightened  to  think  of  that.  Her  one 
thought  was  to  get  away  from  the  Indian,  and  to 
reach  the  mission,  forgetting  in  her  unceasing  fear 
that  she  was  completely  at  the  mercy  of  her  foe,  and 
that,  were  he  bent  on  still  further  mischief,  by  hurry 
ing  unduly,  she  was  only  hastening  the  bitter  mo 
ment. 

And  so  it  proved.  The  road  to  the  mission  lay  at  an 
acute  angle  with  the  course  of  the  stream,  and  the 
place  where  Juana  supposed  the  Indian  to  be  hid 
was,  for  some  distance,  almost  in  front  of  her.  She 
hurried  on,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  left,  but  with 
gaze  bent  tensely  on  the  mission  church,  the  cross 
on  the  roof  alone  being  visible  above  the  tree  tops. 
She  had  gone  only  a  few  yards  when  she  heard  a  sud 
den,  sharp  whistling  in  the  air  near  her.  Startled,  she 
glanced  quickly  to  one  side,  and  clutched  the  baby 
more  closely  to  her — too  late;  she  saw  not  the  arrow, 
such  was  its  velocity,  but  felt  the  baby  give  one  spas 
modic  bound.  She  flew  along  the  road,  the  child 
screaming  as  she  ran.  As  she  neared  the  mission,  and 
the  houses  clustered  around  it,  the  inmates  started 
from  their  various  occupations  and  gazed  in  aston 
ishment  at  Juana  as  she  sped  by,  wild-eyed,  her  hair 
streaming  in  the  wind. 

[123] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

Father  Zalvidea  had  passed  the  morning  in  reading 
the  letters  Diego  had  brought  to  him  the  night  before, 
and  meditating  gloomily  on  the  prospect  confronting 
the  missions.  He  did  not  fear  any  particular  trouble 
at  San  Gabriel,  but  the  news  he  had  had  from  some  of 
the  northern  establishments  was  not  reassuring;  and 
the  missions  were  so  closely  united  in  one  common 
bond,  that  what  was  an  injury  to  one  was  an  injury  to 
all.  After  reading  and  re-reading  the  letters,  he  put 
them  away,  and  betook  himself  to  his  garden  for  a 
little  pasear  before  his  midday  meal.  He  had  paced  the 
length  of  the  garden  only  two  or  three  times,  when  he 
was  aroused  from  his  revery  by  the  abrupt  appearance 
of  a  woman  whom,  from  the  agony  distorting  her 
face,  and  her  long  fluttering  hair,  he  did  not  at  once 
recognise.  As  soon  as  she  saw  him  Juana  cried  out, 
"Father,  Father !"  and  staggering  forward  a  step,  fell, 
unconscious,  at  his  feet.  Calling  loudly  for  help,  the 
priest  bent  over,  and  caught  the  baby  from  her  arms. 
At  sight  of  the  arrow  he  exclaimed:  "Now  may  God 
help  us!"  for  he  understood,  on  the  instant,  its  im 
port. 

By  this  time  he  was  surrounded  by  a  number  of 
women  and  servants,  and,  not  heeding  their  ejacula 
tions,  he  bade  them  carry  Juana  into  the  house.  The 
baby  was  past  help — the  arrow  had  pierced  its  neck, 
and  the  child  was  even  then  in  the  stupor  that  would 
give  way  only  to  death,  the  poison  working  rapidly 
in  the  small  body.  But  the  Father  could  not  linger. 
Leaving  Juana  and  the  child  in  care  of  the  household, 
he  quickly  alarmed  the  Mexican  contingent  of  the  mis- 

[124] 


JUANA 

sion,  and  put  them  on  guard.  A  small  number  of  armed 
men  were  sent  to  reconnoitre  the  mountains  near 
Diego's  home.  The  hunt  was  kept  up  for  two  days; 
but  nothing  was  found  except  the  tracks  of  the  In 
dian  in  the  soft  mud  of  the  river,  and  a  circle  of 
ashes,  the  remains  of  a  small  fire.  From  all  indica 
tions  there  had  been  only  one  Indian  in  the  neighbor 
hood,  and  he,  apparently,  had  disappeared  to  return 
no  more,  for  nothing  was  seen  of  him,  though  a  watch 
was  maintained  there  for  several  weeks. 

Such  a  state  of  extreme  uncertainty  as  the  mission 
was  in  could  not  have  lasted  long,  and  the  Father 
knew  that  unless  something  were  done  to  end  it,  the 
neophytes  would  most  certainly  rise  in  rebellion,  and 
slay  their  masters.  Fortunately  all  danger  was  re 
moved,  a  few  days  after  Diego's  tragic  end,  by  the 
arrival  of  a  messenger  with  letters  from  Santa  Bar 
bara.  The  news  they  contained  was  most  grave.  The 
vague,  intangible  anxiety,  so  long  experienced,  had 
culminated  at  last  in  the  uprising  of  the  Indians  at 
Mission  Purisima.  On  the  Sabbath  morning  previous, 
they  had  made  a  sudden  assault  on  the  mission,  and 
had  burned  many  of  the  buildings,  almost  ruined  the 
church,  and,  after  much  fighting,  had  driven  the 
Mexicans  with  the  fathers  to  Mission  Santa  Ines, 
twenty-five  miles  distant.  Word  had  been  sent  at 
once  to  Monterey,  and  a  detachment  of  soldiers  from 
the  presidio  there  had  hastened  to  the  spot.  This  re 
quired  two  days,  during  which  the  insurgents  held 
the  mission;  but  on  the  arrival  of  the  troops,  they 
were  soon  ousted  and  forced  to  retire. 

[125] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

The  same  thing  was  attempted  at  Santa  Ines,  but 
not  much  difficulty  was  found  in  quelling  the  dis 
turbance.  Some  signs  of  insubordination  were  shown 
at  the  neighboring  missions,  San  Luis  Obispo  in  the 
north,  and  Santa  Barbara,  San  Buenaventura  and 
San  Fernando  south  of  the  scene  of  the  trouble;  but 
there  was  no  disturbance  after  the  Indians  had 
learned  that  the  attempt  at  Purisima  was  unsuccess 
ful;  and  they  hastened  to  pledge  obedience  to  the 
fathers.  There  were  four  hundred  Indians  in  active 
insurrection,  and  although  many  were  wounded,  only 
sixteen  were  killed. 

As  for  San  Gabriel,  the  shooting  of  Diego  and  his 
child  was  the  only  incident  that  occurred  at  this  mis 
sion  which  showed  the  condition  of  things  prevail 
ing  everywhere;  and  Father  Zalvidea  was  thankful 
to  have  it  no  worse — yet  long  he  mourned  for  his 
faithful  servant.  When  Diego  and  Pepito  were  buried, 
the  Father  made  a  solemn  and  impressive  address  to 
the  neophytes,  painting  in  vivid  colors  the  pains  of 
hell,  which  those  engaged  in  the  insurrection  were  in 
danger  of  experiencing  after  death,  contrasting  it 
with  the  joys  of  those  blessed  ones  who  did  God's 
will  on  earth,  and  received  their  own  great  reward 
hereafter. 

Juana  was  delirious  and  raving  for  many  days. 
The  shock  itself  was  sufficient  to  cause  her  illness, 
but  it  was  surmised  that  the  arrow,  which  had  slain 
Pepito,  had  entered  an  inch  or  so  into  her  arm.  In 
the  excitement  of  her  sudden  appearance  and  faint 
ing,  when  the  Father  took  the  child  from  her,  this 

[126] 


JUANA 

was  not  noticed;  but  a  few  hours  later  her  arm  be 
came  much  swollen  and  very  painful;  and  as  a  slight 
wound  was  discovered,  the  Father  concluded  some 
of  the  poison  had  entered  her  system.  This  was  the 
only  plausible  theory  to  account  for  her  swollen  arm, 
and  also,  perhaps,  for  her  subsequent  condition;  for 
Juana,  alas!  never  recovered  her  mental  faculties 
after  the  fever  left  her.  Regaining  her  physical  health, 
the  memory  of  her  former  life  was  an  almost  com 
plete  blank.  All  she  seemed  to  have  retained  were  the 
refrains  of  two  or  three  songs  she  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  sing  to  Diego,  in  the  first  months  of  their 
married  life. 

Juana  lived  for  many  years,  and  until  she  became 
an  old,  old  woman.  She  was  always  treated  with  the 
greatest  consideration  by  every  one  at  the  mission, 
for  her  story  was  known,  at  first,  as  an  event  in  their 
mission  life,  then,  as  the  years  went  by,  as  history 
and  tradition.  Meek  and  gentle  she  was.  It  was  only 
when  thwarted  in  her  desires  that  she  became 
aroused  to  a  pitch  of  angry  insanity  which  made  her 
dangerous.  This  chanced  very  seldom,  for  she  was 
allowed  to  do  as  she  pleased  in  all  things.  And  so  she 
lived,  unnoting  the  many  and  great  changes  that  took 
place  from  year  to  year  in  Nueva  California — San 
Gabriel  losing  its  greatness  and  power,  ceasing,  even, 
together  with  all  the  others,  its  life  as  a  mission,  and 
the  province  itself  torn  from  the  grasp  of  Mexico,  to 
become  a  member  of  the  greatest  republic  in  the 
world — her  unheeding  mind  knew  nothing  of  all  this. 
Her  favorite  pastime,  after  the  railroad  was  built 

[127] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

through  the  little  town  of  San  Gabriel,  was  to  wander 
down  to  the  station,  when  time  for  the  trains,  which 
she  quickly  learned,  and  to  greet  them  with  the 
snatches  of  song  that  remained  with  her — sole  vestige 
of  her  former  life. 

But  death  came  at  last  to  this  poor  wayfarer  on 
life's  journey,  and  she  was  buried  in  the  cemetery 
near  the  church,  by  the  side  of  her  husband  and  her 
child,  the  place  which  had  been,  by  common  consent, 
reserved  for  her  in  the  sadly  overcrowded  little 
campo  santo.  Here  lies  all  of  her  that  was  mortal. 
We  know  she  is  well  once  more,  with  her  mind  and 
memory,  touched  by  divine  healing,  restored  to  her, 
and,  we  may  be  sure,  happy  in  the  companionship  of 
her  loved  ones. 


[128] 


FATHER  URIA'S  SAINTS 


FATHER  URIAS  SAINTS 


HEREFORE  I  went  to 
Father  Uria  and  told 
him  your  story.  He  was 
very  kind,  and  bade  me 
write  to  you  that  you 
might  trust  him  to  find 
you  something  to  do  if 
you  should  decide  to 
come  here.  Have  no 
fear;  there  are  not 
enough  men  at  San 
Buenaventura  to  pre 
vent  a  single  man  from 
having  all  the  work  he 
may  wish.  Make  haste  and  come.  Do  not  delay.  Diego." 
The  reader  finished  the  letter,  and  there  was  a 
silence  of  some  minutes  between  the  two,  reader  and 
listener.  The  former,  a  young  man,  not  much  more 
than  twenty-five  years  of  age,  had  a  moody  expres 
sion  on  his  dark  face.  After  reading  the  letter  he 
waited  for  his  companion  to  speak.  But  Maria,  his 
wife,  appeared  not  to  notice  this,  and  remained  silent. 

[131] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

The  two  were  sitting  on  the  porch  of  a  little  adobe 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  presidio  town  of  Tubac, 
Mexico,  a  few  miles  from  the  coast  of  the  Gulf  of 
California.  This  had  been  the  home  of  Benito's  par 
ents,  and  since  their  death  three  years  before,  that  of 
himself  and  his  wife.  For  a  time  they  had  been  happy 
in  their  hard-working  life,  for  love  lightened  their 
toil;  but  toward  the  close  of  the  second  year  in  their 
home  they  had  suffered  a  series  of  reverses  that 
sadly  crippled  Benito's  resources.  First  there  had 
been  a  season  of  such  heat  and  drought  that  all  their 
labor  in  the  dozen  acres  which  Benito  cultivated 
came  to  naught,  and  they  gathered  hardly  more  than 
enough  to  keep  them  from  starving  before  the  next 
year's  harvest.  Then  one  of  Benito's  horses,  of  which 
he  had  three,  and  fine  ones  they  were,  had  been  taken 
sick  and  died  just  at  the  time  when  it  was  most 
needed,  during  the  early  summer  plowing — both 
Benito's  and  his  neighbors';  for  after  the  work  on  his 
own  land  was  done,  Benito  worked  for  others,  thus 
adding  something  toward  their  income.  The  death 
of  his  horse  was  a  severe  blow  to  him,  not  only  be 
cause  he  loved  his  horses,  but  because  his  income 
was  greatly  curtailed  in  consequence.  With  three 
horses  Benito  could  use  a  pair  every  day,  and  yet 
allow  each  horse  to  rest  one  day  out  of  three;  but 
with  two,  it  could  be  done  only  by  losing  a  day's  work 
out  of  every  three;  and  this  was  the  plan  Benito  had 
followed,  for  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  use  his 
good  steeds  every  day.  This  had  occurred  in  the 
spring  following  the  poor  harvest. 

[132] 


FATHER  URIA'S  SAINTS 

Some  weeks  later,  about  six  months  before  our 
story  opens,  another  disaster  befell  these  two  unfor 
tunate  ones.  One  night,  Benito  and  Maria  had  been 
awakened  by  a  terrible  uproar  in  their  chicken- 
house.  Benito  rushed  out  to  find  it  in  flames.  Some 
traveller  passing,  after  smoking  a  cigarette,  had,  most 
likely,  carelessly  thrown  the  burning  stub  among  the 
inflammable  boards  and  loose  stuff  of  the  enclosure. 
Benito  did  what  he  could  to  rescue  the  hens  and 
chickens,  but  of  all  of  his  flock,  he  saved  a  mere 
score.  This  last  calamity  was  almost  more  than  Maria 
could  bear.  The  hens  had  been  her  especial  care.  She 
had,  under  her  skillful  tending,  seen  the  flock  in 
crease  from  the  small  nucleus  of  a  dozen,  which 
Benito  had  bought  and  given  her  on  her  coming  to 
his  home,  a  few  days  after  they  were  married,  to  over 
one  hundred.  These  hens  had  been  the  source  of  no 
small  profit,  and  by  their  means  Benito  was  able  to 
put  aside  a  little  nest  egg  each  year.  And  now  they 
must  begin  again!  It  was  hard,  and  both  felt  there 
was  no  relief  for  them.  The  little  they  had  saved  dur 
ing  the  first  few  years  had  to  be  used  for  the  summer 
sowing,  and  for  food  until  they  could  gather  a  har 
vest.  Here,  again,  Benito  found  there  would  not  be 
more  than  sufficient  for  their  wants,  and  that,  when 
the  next  sowing  time  came,  they  would  be  in  a  worse 
condition  than  at  present  for  continuing  the  struggle 
for  existence.  Altogether  Benito  and  Maria  were  on 
the  edge  of  despair. 

Shortly  after  the  death  of  Benito's  parents,  his 
elder  brother  had  made  one  of  a  band  of  artisans, 

[133] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

laborers  and  soldiers,  in  company  with  two  Fran 
ciscan  priests,  to  the  province  of  Nueva  California. 
Diego,  who  was  of  a  roving  disposition,  had  wan 
dered  off  to  the  south,  working  at  his  trade  of  car 
pentry  as  the  mood  seized  him,  or  the  state  of  his 
pocket  forced  him,  now  here,  now  there,  until  finally 
he  found  himself  in  the  coast  town  of  San  Bias.  This 
was  the  point  from  which  many  of  the  expeditions 
to  the  northern  province  set  sail;  and  the  busy  prep 
arations  for  departure,  which  Diego  witnessed,  fired 
his  desire  to  join  a  company  about  to  leave  for  the 
remote,  half-mythical  region  in  the  north.  This  he 
did,  and,  some  weeks  later,  landed  at  Monterey, 
whence,  in  the  course  of  the  next  year,  he  worked  his 
way  south  until  he  reached  Mission  San  Buenaven 
tura.  Here  he  settled  down  permanently,  having 
grown  tired  of  his  aimless  life,  and  became  an  active 
and  useful  man  to  the  Father.  Communication  be 
tween  the  two  countries  in  those  days  was  infrequent, 
and  Benito  had  heard  his  brother  was  settled  at  San 
Buenaventura  only  after  he  had  been  there  nearly  a 
year.  Diego  described,  in  glowing  terms,  the  advan 
tages  of  the  province — the  fine  climate,  exceeding 
fertility  of  the  soil,  land  to  be  had  for  the  asking, 
where  everything  necessary  and  desired  could  be 
grown,  and  his  own  content,  far  away,  though  he  was, 
from  his  old  home.  This  letter  had  reached  Benito 
when  he  was  at  the  lowest  ebb  of  his  fortunes.  The 
glowing  language  of  his  brother's  description  of 
Nueva  California  awakened  an  intense  longing  in  his 
heart  to  go  there  and  make  a  new  beginning  under 

[134] 


FATHER  URIA'S  SAINTS 

more  favorable  influences.  He  said  nothing  to  Maria, 
but  wrote  a  letter  to  Diego,  telling  of  his  troubles, 
and  asking  if  there  were  room  for  himself  and  wife 
in  that  new  land.  This  he  sent  off  by  a  friend  to  San 
Bias,  where  it  was  given  over  to  a  priest  who,  in  turn, 
was  to  deliver  it  into  the  charge  of  the  next  expedi 
tion  to  be  sent  out.  Benito  had  written  nearly  six 
months  before,  and  had  about  given  up  looking  for 
an  answer,  when  a  neighbor,  returning  home  from 
the  town,  handed  him  a  letter  as  he  passed  by.  His 
brother  gave  him  encouraging  news  and  advised  him 
to  come,  ending  with  the  words  quoted  above.  After 
reading  it,  Benito  hastened  to  find  Maria,  and  with 
her  by  his  side  on  the  little  porch  he  read  it  again 
to  her. 

At  last  Maria  broke  the  silence: 

"Benito,  I  am  glad  you  wrote  to  Diego,  and  I  feel 
sure  the  best  thing  for  us  to  do  is  to  go.  How  can  we 
keep  on  in  the  way  \ve  have  been  doing  the  last  two 
years?  I  am  tired  and  disheartened,  and  I  know  you 
are  too;  but  there,  in  the  new  land,  we  could  make 
another  start  with  better  courage.  Let  us  go."  Maria 
looked  up  at  Benito,  smiling  brightly,  but  with  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

Benito  lost  no  time  in  carrying  out  his  plan,  and 
at  the  end  of  a  few  weeks  he  had  sold  his  house  and 
land,  and  all  his  furniture  and  farming  tools,  reserv 
ing  only  his  horses.  These,  with  a  few  clothes,  and 
two  hundred  dollars  in  gold  in  his  pocket,  made  up 
the  entire  wealth  of  this  poor  couple.  As  Benito 
wished  to  keep  his  horses,  he  decided  to  go  to  the 

[135] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

new  country  overland  by  way  of  the  Colorado  River, 
and  across  the  desert  to  Mission  San  Gabriel.  This 
had  been  the  regular  route  of  the  land  expeditions  of 
the  early  days  of  mission  history,  and  was  still  used, 
although  less  frequently.  Benito  and  Maria  had  not 
long  to  wait  when  a  company  was  formed  to  start  out 
on  the  long  journey  of  seven  hundred  miles  to  Mis 
sion  San  Buenaventura. 

At  the  time  of  the  setting  out  of  our  friends  in  the 
year  1830,  travelling  overland  from  Mexico  to  Cali 
fornia  was  an  easy  thing,  compared  to  the  hardship 
and  dangers  of  fifty  years  earlier.  Then,  the  way, 
through  the  desert  around  the  mouth  of  the  Colorado 
River,  was  beset  by  the  fierce  and  powerful  Yuma 
Indians,  and  unless  the  band  of  travellers  were  large 
and  well  armed,  it  would  suffer  severely  at  their 
hands.  But  the  Yumas  had  become  subdued  with 
time,  and  travelling  made  safe.  The  company  with 
which  Benito  and  Maria  journeyed  had  no  mishap, 
and  after  four  weeks  passed  on  the  way,  they  arrived, 
one  evening  late  in  October,  at  Mission  San  Buena 
ventura,  just  as  the  bells  of  the  mission  church  were 
pealing  out  their  evening  burden. 

What  a  charming  place  Mission  San  Buenaventura 
was  in  those  days !  Situated  on  the  coast,  it  stood  not 
a  half-mile  from  the  water,  which  it  faced,  while  be 
hind,  and  close  to  it,  was  a  line  of  hills  running  off 
into  the  distance  until  they  disappeared  on  the  hori 
zon.  At  the  time  of  year  our  pilgrims  first  saw  it, 
there  was  little  remaining  of  the  verdant  freshness 
of  spring  and  early  summer.  But  if  Nature  refuses 

[136] 


FATHER  URIA'S  SAINTS 

to  permit  southern  California  to  wear  her  mantle  of 
green  later  than  May  or  June,  she  has  bestowed  on 
her  a  wealth  of  warm  yellow,  red  and  brown,  which, 
to  some,  is  even  more  pleasing.  The  bare  ground 
takes  on  a  vividness  of  glowing  color  that  is  almost 
incredible,  while  the  hills  in  the  distance  run  through 
another  gamut  of  color — from  yellow  through  all  the 
shades  of  orange  to  an  almost  pure  pink,  with  pale 
blue  shadows,  changing  at  sunset  to  intensest  purple. 
Color  is  rife  in  California. 

The  mission  consisted  of  a  large  white  adobe 
church,  a  long  line  of  buildings  adjoining  in  which 
lived  the  padre  and  the  Mexicans,  and  a  number  of 
little  houses  and  cabins,  some  of  adobe,  but  the 
greater  number  of  straw  and  rushes,  which  sheltered 
the  Indians.  These  little  huts  were  scattered  around 
irregularly  on  all  sides;  and  to  them  the  inmates 
were  wending  their  way  from  their  daily  toil  in  the 
fields  and  among  the  horses  and  cattle,  and  from  all 
the  occupations  of  a  pastoral  life.  Nothing  more  beau 
tiful  could  well  be  imagined  than  the  picture  the  mis 
sion  made  in  the  rosy  light  of  sunset — crowds  of  sav 
ages,  children  of  nature  gathered  together  to  receive 
the  rich  blessings  bestowed  on  them  by  the  fathers, 
deriving  their  authority  from  the  Church  whose  sym 
bol,  the  great  white  building,  towering  above  all  else 
of  man's  work,  stood  like  a  sentinel  guarding  the  re 
ligious  life  of  the  mission. 

Father  Uria  had  been  pacing  to  and  fro  in  front  of 
the  mission  for  more  than  an  hour,  waiting  impa 
tiently  for  the  expedition  from  Mexico,  which  had 

[137] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

been  expected  two  days  before,  its  regular  time  of 
arrival.  It  was  not  at  all  unusual  for  these  bands  to 
be  delayed  three  or  four  days,  and  that  without  meet 
ing  with  any  accident  on  the  way;  but  news  from 
home  was  infrequent  to  a  degree  that  made  an  expe 
dition  to  the  province  awaited  with  almost  unreason 
able  impatience.  Mail,  as  well  as  everything  else, 
came  usually  by  sea;  but  to  send  letters  by  the  desert 
route  was  by  no  means  rare. 

Father  Uria  was  known  to  all  his  fraternity  in  the 
country  for  his  eccentricity.  He  was  a  small,  rather 
stout  man,  about  sixty  years  of  age,  every  one  of 
which  had  left  its  mark  upon  him;  for  his  had  been 
a  life  of  toil  surpassed  by  but  few,  even  among  those 
self-denying  workers  in  the  Lord's  vineyard.  But  the 
hardships  of  his  life  had  not  quenched  his  jovial 
spirits,  which  were,  indeed,  irrepressible.  A  laughing 
greeting  for  every  one  he  met,  Mexican  or  Indian, 
was  his  habit,  one  that  might  have  begotten  a  meas 
ure  of  contempt  in  the  beholder,  had  the  Father  not 
possessed  a  sternness,  latent  for  the  most  part,  it  is 
true,  but  which  could,  on  occasion,  be  evoked  to  prop 
up  the  apparently  tottering  respect  due  him.  Father 
Uria  was  fond,  too,  of  company,  not  only  for  its  own 
sake,  but  because  it  gave  him  an  excuse  for  the  pleas 
ures  of  the  table,  and,  in  especial,  for  enjoying  the 
delights  of  the  wine  made  at  Mission  San  Gabriel, 
and  which  was  in  demand  by  all  the  missions.  This 
was  a  weakness  seldom  indulged  in,  for  the  Father 
cared  not  for  imbibing  this  delectable  liquid  unless 
assisted  by  pleasant  company;  and  occasions  when 

[138] 


FATHER  URIA'S  SAINTS 

this  could  be  had  were  rare.  Let  not  the  reader  infer 
from  this  that  our  respected  fraile  was  guilty  of 
drinking  more  than  was  good  or  seemly  for  him. 
There  had  been  a  whisper  one  time,  going  the  rounds 
of  the  missions,  that  he  had  been  uproariously  drunk 
on  some  occasion  in  the  past;  one  slanderous  tongue 
said  the  priest  had  been  reprimanded  by  President 
Sanchez,  but  we  do  not  believe  a  word  of  this.  And 
who  would  grudge  him  all  the  pleasure  he  might  get 
from  the  good  San  Gabriel  wine?  Think  of  the  poor 
padre,  expatriated  for  the  rest  of  his  days,  and  in  a 
land  that  wanted  much  to  make  life  seem  worth  the 
living!  Our  hearts  go  out  to  the  Father,  as  to  all  the 
other  good  men  who  had  done  likewise,  in  deepest 
sympathy. 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  enumerate  all  the  pecu 
liarities  of  Father  Uria.  But  there  was  one,  before 
which  all  the  rest  sank  into  insignificance,  and  that 
was  his  excessive  fondness  for  cats.  The  love  of  cats 
is  more  particularly  a  feminine  trait;  and  this,  to 
gether  with  his  strength  of  mind,  marked  though  it 
was  usually  by  his  geniality,  makes  it  the  more  sur 
prising  in  Father  Uria's  case.  Yet  such  was  the  fact, 
and  as  such  was  it  recognised  by  all  with  whom  he 
came  in  contact;  for  in  this  instance  it  was  "love  me 
love  my" — cats!  This  hobby  of  the  friar  was  one  he 
had  had  from  childhood;  but  gaining  man's  estate, 
he  had  kept  it  in  subjection  (fearing  it  was  not  in 
accord  with  the  strictest  propriety,  especially  after 
taking  orders)  until  he  came  to  California.  Here  he 
had  found  a  life  of  such  loneliness,  that,  as  a  refuge 

[139] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

from  almost  unbearable  ennui,  he  had  gone  back  to 
his  youthful  feline  love  with  more  than  youthful 
ardor.  When  he  came  to  take  charge  of  the  Mission, 
San  Buenaventura,  three  years  before,  he  had  brought 
with  him,  carefully  watched  over,  four  immense  cats, 
which  had  long  been  his  pets.  These  he  still  had,  and 
in  their  companionship  he  found  his  greatest  solace 
for  a  life  of  solitude. 

Father  Uria  continued  his  walking  to  and  fro,  gaz 
ing  off  to  the  east  along  the  road  which  the  expedition 
from  Mexico  must  traverse  on  its  way  to  Monterey. 
Behind  him,  almost  at  his  heels,  trotted  one  of  his 
pets,  seeming  to  be  perfectly  content  to  follow  the 
footsteps  of  her  master,  and  showing  unbounded  joy, 
when  he  stopped  for  a  moment  to  pet  and  speak  to 
her. 

"Well !  gatita  mia,  you  are  the  only  one  to  stay  with 
your  old  master.  Where  are  the  others?  Off  hunting 
for  gophers,  I  suppose.  But  here  are  the  travellers  at 
last,"  and  he  hurried  down  the  road  toward  the  ap 
proaching  train,  the  cat  bounding  along  at  his  side, 
or  running  off  every  few  feet,  now  this  way,  now 
that,  to  chase  a  butterfly  or  mosquito  hawk.  Once,  in 
her  haste  to  overtake  her  master,  she  encountered  a 
horned  toad.  With  a  spring  to  one  side,  and  a  loud 
"spst!"  she  passed  it,  for  this  pet  of  Father  Uria  was 
acquainted  with  these  hated  objects,  but  could  never 
overcome  her  intense  horror  of  them.  We  are  much 
afraid  this  puss  is  a  sad  coward. 

The  Father  reached  the  band  of  travellers,  and  he 
received  from  the  commander  the  packet  of  letters 

[140] 


FATHER  URIA'S  SAINTS 

destined  for  the  mission.  Then,  with  a  few  words  of 
welcome  to  all,  he  bade  them  follow  him  to  the  mis 
sion,  where  they  would  find  refreshment  and  shelter 
for  the  night.  On  the  way,  singling  out  Benito  and 
Maria  (the  former  from  his  resemblance  to  Diego) 
Father  Uria  questioned  them  as  to  their  journey,  and 
plans  for  their  future  home  at  his  mission.  Benito  re 
lated  his  story,  and  hopes  of  finding  some  occupation. 

"Diego  tells  me  you  are  skilled  in  gardening,"  said 
the  Father.  "Would  you  like  to  take  charge  of  my 
garden  and  orchard?  My  gardener  is  growing  too  old 
for  work,  and  I  have  long  had  thoughts  of  retiring 
him.  I  have  waited  only  to  find  some  one  to  take  his 
place,  and  when  Diego  told  me  of  you,  I  thought  you 
might  be  the  one  I  want.  What  say  you?" 

"I  thank  you  heartily,  my  Father,"  replied  Benito. 
"I  should,  indeed,  be  happy  and  proud  to  do  that,  if 
I  can  prove  worthy." 

They  reached  the  mission,  and  there  Benito  found 
Diego  waiting  to  welcome  him.  After  bidding  Benito 
to  come  and  see  him  in  the  morning,  as  Diego  led 
them  away  to  his  own  little  home,  the  Father  went 
in,  his  cat  following.  Leaving  her  in  the  house,  the 
Father  passed  on  to  the  church,  where  he  performed 
the  usual  short  evening  service  of  the  rosario,  after 
which  he  returned  to  his  habitation.  No  sooner  was 
he  in  the  house,  than  he  was  fairly  bombarded  by  a 
small  army  of  cats,  or  so  it  seemed;  for  although  there 
were  only  four,  including  the  one  with  whom  we  are 
already  acquainted,  one  might  have  thought,  from 
the  noise  and  confusion  they  made,  trying  to  get  at 

[141] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

their  dear  master,  that  there  were  a  dozen  at  least. 

"Now,  my  cats,  you  really  must  behave  yourselves 
a  little  better  than  this,"  said  the  Father,  with  a  tone 
of  sternness,  which,  however,  had  not  the  slighest  ef 
fect,  since  he  began  at  once  to  pet  them,  first  one  and 
then  another,  as  they  crowded  around  him.  "I  know 
you  are  hungry,  but  that  is  no  excuse  for  making  such 
a  disturbance.  Gome,  we  shall  have  supper,"  and  with 
these  words  he  went  into  his  dining-room,  the  cats 
trooping  after  him. 

Father  Uria  always  had  his  table  set  with  as  much 
variety  and  luxury  as  his  meagre  salary,  and  the  re 
sources  of  the  mission,  allowed.  He  was  not  a  hearty 
eater,  nor,  as  we  have  said,  did  he  drink  largely  of 
wine,  unless  he  had  the  support  of  congenial  com 
pany,  but  he  insisted  on  variety.  His  vegetable  garden 
was  his  pride,  and  the  object  of  extremest  solicitude. 
In  it  he  had,  in  flourishing  condition,  every  sort  of 
edible,  including,  as  well,  the  fruits  especially  adapted 
to  that  climate.  As  he  was  seldom  favored  with  guests, 
he  had  made  it  a  custom  to  have  his  pet  cats  bear 
him  company  at  his  meals;  and  he  had  trained  them 
so  well  that  they  were,  in  general,  as  perfectly  be 
haved,  in  their  limited  capacity,  as  the  best  mannered 
human  being;  only  occasionally,  when  hunger  gained 
the  upper  hand,  did  they  break  the  bounds  of  cat- 
decorum.  They  had  their  places  opposite  the  Father, 
in  two  chairs,  two  cats,  side  by  side,  in  each  chair; 
and  there  they  would  sit,  looking  with  meek  but 
hungry  eyes,  first  at  the  Father,  then  at  the  meat  and 
cream  destined  for  their  repast. 

[142] 


FATHER  URIA'S  SAINTS 

But  it  is  time  these  cats  were  introduced  to  the 
reader,  for  such  intimate  and   (if  we  may  be  per 
mitted  to  use  the  word)  personal  friends  of  the  priest 
should  have  a  regular  introduction.  Let  us  begin  then, 
with  the  first,  and,  as  it  happens,  the  oldest  and  most 
sedate  one.  His  name  is  San  Francisco,  a  solemn- 
looking  beast,  large  and  handsome;  he  is  a  maltese, 
and  is  admired  by  all  who  have  seen  him.  The  cat 
sitting  quietly  by  his  side  in  the  same  chair  is  Santa 
Barbara,  a  maltese  like  her  companion,  but  younger 
and  not  so  handsome,  only  because  not  so  large.  Next 
comes,  in  the  second  chair,  the  cat  whose  acquaint 
ance  we  have  already  made,  Santa  Clara,  the  Father's 
usual  companion  at  all  times,  for  she  has  less  roving 
blood  in  her  veins,  and  prefers  remaining  with  her 
master  to  hunting  and  other  feline  diversions.  She, 
too,  is  maltese,  but  has  white  paws,  the  only  deviation 
from  pure  blood  that  any  of  the  four  cats  show.  The 
last,  the  youngest  and  smallest  cat  (although  she  can 
boast  of  five  years  of  age,  and,  in  any  company  but 
the  present,  would  be  considered  a  fine  large  animal), 
is  Santa  Ines,  the  daughter  of  Santa  Barbara.  She  is 
the  one  to  get  into  all  the  mischief  of  which  cats  are 
capable;  to  run  away  and  lead  every  one  a  lively  chase 
until  she  is  found,  for  the  Father  (let  us  whisper  it 
under  our  breath)  would  feel  nearly  as  much  sorrow 
at  the  loss  of  one  of  his  cats,  as  he  would  at  losing  the 
soul  of  one  of  his  neophytes. 

We  fear  much  that  our  reader  will  be  ready  to  set 
Father  Uria  down  as  a  mere  fool,  or  a  half-crazy  old 
man,  and  to  sneer  at  him  and  his  precious  cats.  But 

[143] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

are  not  we  all  crazy  on  some  subject;  has  not  each 
one  of  us  some  hobby  or  idiosyncrasy  which  makes 
us  appear  more  or  less  demented  to  our  neighbors? 
And  just  because  the  twist  in  our  poor  Father's  mind 
takes  the  particular  form  of  a  love  for  cats,  why 
should  we,  how  dare  we,  say  he  is  crazy?  No,  he  was 
no  more  crazy  than  are  we;  and  perhaps  his  beau 
tiful  cats  kept  him  from  becoming  so,  in  very  sooth, 
forced  to  live  in  the  wilderness,  if  we  may  call  it  that, 
deprived  of  all  the  happiness  of  his  native  land,  and 
of  the  friends  for  whom  these  cats  make  a  poor  sub 
stitute  at  the  best. 

But  there  is  one  point  on  which  we  cannot  find  ex* 
cuse  for  the  Father,  that  is,  in  giving  his  cats  the  names 
of  some  of  the  most  respected  and  venerated  saints 
among  the  Franciscans;  going  so  far,  indeed,  as  to 
bestow  upon  his  finest  cat  the  name  of  Saint  Francis 
himself,  the  founder  of  the  order.  It  is  difficult  to  con 
ceive  of  such  irreverence  in  a  priest,  himself  a  mem 
ber  of  that  great  order  in  the  Catholic  Church;  and  it 
is  this,  if  anything,  which  would  show  a  weakness  of 
the  mind.  But  even  here,  let  us  say,  not  as  excuse,  but 
in  mitigation  of  his  offence,  that  only  from  inadvert 
ence  did  the  Father  speak  to,  or  of,  his  cats  by  these 
names  in  any  one's  hearing;  and  there  were  only  two 
or  three  people  at  the  mission  who  knew  after  what 
august  personages  they  were  called.  Besides,  their 
full  title  was  usually  reserved  for  occasions  of  repri 
mand,  and  with  these  well-mannered  creatures  such 
occasions  were  rare  indeed. 

"Well,"  said  the  Father,  beginning  his  own  supper, 

[144] 


FATHER  URIA'S  SAINTS 

after  having  given  the  cats  each  their  portion  of  meat 
in  a  large,  deep  plate,  flanked  by  a  saucer  brimming 
full  of  sweet  cream,  "aren't  you  pretty  cats  to  go  off 
and  leave  me  the  whole  afternoon?  Clara  was  the 
only  one  to  keep  me  company.  What  is  the  use  in 
having  four  cats  to  amuse  me,  if  you  mean  to  run  off 
whenever  the  notion  seizes  you?  I  want  you  cats  to 
be  home  all  the  time.  You,  San  Francisco,  should  have 
stayed  here  with  Clara  as  you  are  the  largest.  I  think 
I  shall  have  to  tie  you  up  to-morrow.  No,  I  believe  I'll 
punish  you  now  by  taking  away  your  supper,"  saying 
which,  the  Father  reached  across  the  table  and  re 
moved  the  plate  of  meat  and  the  cream  from  in  front 
of  Francisco,  who  had  just  begun  to  devour  his  re 
past.  "Miou!  Miou!"  said  Francisco,  piteously,  looking 
after  his  supper,  which  the  priest  put  down  on  the 
table  near  his  own.  It  was  too  much :  Francisco  forgot 
his  manners  and  with  one  bound  he  leaped  across  the 
table,  snatched  up  a  piece  of  meat,  and,  with  a  growl 
of  defiance,  began  chewing  it  vigorously.  The  Father 
laughed  and  returned  the  cat's  supper.  "I  am  afraid, 
Francisco,  you  did  not  catch  much  in  your  hunt  this 
afternoon,  for  you  appear  to  be  as  hungry  as  usual. 
So  I  won't  punish  you  by  depriving  you  of  your  sup 
per.  Go  back  to  your  place." 

After  supper,  the  Father,  accompanied  by  his  friends, 
made  a  tour  of  the  mission  to  see  that  everything 
wras  safe  for  the  night;  then,  returning  to  his  house 
by  the  church,  he  spent  the  evening  reading  the  let 
ters  and  messages  brought  to  him  that  day,  and  in 
studying  for  an  hour  or  so  by  the  help  of  the  few 

[145] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

theological  books  his  library  boasted.  Father  Uria  was 
an  intelligent  and  well-educated  man,  and  took  de 
light  in  the  investigation  of  the  abstruse  subjects  and 
doctrines  his  Church  afforded.  He  did  this  from  nat 
ural  inclination,  and  not  from  any  practical  use  to 
be  made  of  such  study  in  his  capacity  as  head  of  the 
mission.  People  in  Nueva  California,  in  those  days, 
not  only  the  Indians,  but  the  Mexicans  and  Spaniards, 
were  of  the  utmost  simplicity  of  mind,  entirely  unable 
to  grasp  anything  beyond  the  rudiments  of  their  faith. 
Early  the  next  morning  Benito  made  his  appear 
ance.  The  Father  conducted  him  out  to  his  garden, 
and  showed  him  the  method  he  had  pursued  in  bring 
ing  everything  to  a  high  state  of  cultivation.  Irriga 
tion  was  not  absolutely  essential,  as  at  many  of  the 
other  missions;  but,  notwithstanding,  Father  Uria  had 
evolved  a  miniature  system  in  his  garden  by  means 
of  a  spring  in  the  foot-hills,  half  a  mile  away,  from 
which  water  was  brought  in  a  narrow  flume.  This  had 
long  been  in  use  for  the  general  needs  of  the  mission; 
but  it  was  reserved  for  Father  Uria  to  apply  some  of 
the  surplus  water  to  the  garden.  Father  Uria  had  once 
visited  the  garden  at  Mission  San  Gabriel  which  had 
been  the  special  pride  and  comfort  of  Father  Zal- 
videa;  and  it  was  with  complacent  satisfaction  that, 
in  comparing  it  with  his  own,  he  saw  the  latter  suf 
fered  no  disparagement.  His  was  in  fully  as  flourish 
ing  condition,  but  the  element  of  picturesque  beauty 
was  lacking;  his  needs  for  a  garden  were  entirely  utili 
tarian,  while  Father  Zalvidea  required  beauty  quite 
as  much  as  use.  The  two  gardens  were  typical  of  the 

[146] 


FATHER  URIA'S  SAINTS 

two  men.  So  Benito  was  installed  as  his  gardener. 

While  the  Father  was  showing  Benito  the  garden, 
andv  explaining  to  him  about  the  plants,  the  cats 
which,  as  usual,  had  followed  him,  employed  the  time 
in  roaming  around  among  the  bushes,  searching  in 
tently  for  anything  alive  which  might  make  fair 
game.  They  scattered  in  all  directions,  one  after  a 
humming-bird,  another  chasing  a  butterfly;  the  third 
wandered  off  lazily  to  a  big  patch  of  catnip  for  a  sniff 
of  its  delightful  aroma;  wrhile  the  fourth  began  to 
career  to  and  fro  after  a  dragon-fly,  in  the  wildest 
fashion.  The  priest  and  Benito  had  moved  off  to  an 
asparagus  bed,  to  consult  about  the  best  treatment  to 
give  it,  for  the  plants  were  slowly  dying,  and  the 
Father  was  in  a  quandary.  The  dragon-fly  alighted  to 
rest  on  his  broad-brimmed  hat.  All  unconscious  of  its 
presence,  he  talked  on  with  Benito,  expounding  his 
theory  of  the  proper  treatment  for  the  asparagus, 
when,  suddenly,  as  he  bent  over  a  plant  to  look  at  it 
more  closely,  with  a  blow  that  almost  knocked  him 
down,  his  hat  \vent  flying  from  his  head,  and  fell  to 
the  ground  several  yards  away,  while  at  his  feet 
dropped  the  venturesome  Ines.  She  was  up  in  an  in 
stant,  looking  for  her  prey,  but  it  was  out  of  sight. 

With  an  exclamation  rather  stronger  than  was  quite 
proper  in  one  of  his  cloth,  the  Father  turned  to  the  cat. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this  business,  Ines  ?  Really, 
you  are  getting  to  be  insufferable.  I  cannot  allow  you 
to  come  out  with  me  if  you  carry  on  in  this  way."  Benito 
had  run  to  pick  up  his  hat,  and  offered  it  to  him,  his 
eyes  dancing  with  merriment,  and  the  corners  of  his 

[147] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

mouth  twitching.  The  Father  took  it,  and  noting  the 
gleam  in  his  eyes,  smiled  himself.  "These  cats  of  mine 
will  be  the  death  of  me  some  day,  I  expect,"  he  said, 
laughing.  "Go  along,  Ines,  and  remember  to  show  a 
little  more  respect  for  your  master  another  time." 

These  saints  of  Father  Uria  were  given  the  run  of 
the  entire  mission,  and  were  known  to  all  its  inhab 
itants.  Although  every  one  was  kind  to  them,  the  cats 
were  dignified  and  distant  toward  all  but  the  Father 
and  Benito,  after  the  latter  had  lived  there  a  few 
months.  It  had  gradually  become  one  of  Benito's 
duties  to  keep  an  eye  on  them;  shut  them  up  when 
the  Father  did  not  wish  them  around;  and  when,  as 
occasionally  happened,  they  ran  away,  to  search  for 
them.  Usually  they  would  return  of  their  own  accord 
the  second  day,  if  not  found  the  night  before;  but 
the  Father  could  not  sleep  unless  he  knew  his  pre 
cious  animals  were  housed  safely,  and  an  effort  was 
always  made  to  find  the  truants  before  night  set  in. 

From  the  time  Benito  and  Maria  made  San  Buena 
ventura  their  home,  Fortune  again  turned  her  face 
toward  them.  Benito,  with  steady  employment  as 
the  Father's  gardener  and  trusted  servant,  was  pros 
perous  and  happy;  while  Maria  once  more  had  her 
chickens,  although  the  demand  for  her  poultry  and 
eggs  was  smaller  than  she  had  found  in  her  former 
home  in  Mexico.  She  seldom  missed  her  old  asso 
ciates,  busy  as  she  was,  and  content  with  her  simple 
tasks  the  whole  day  long.  What  a  quiet,  peaceful  life 
was  that  at  the  California  missions  in  the  old  days! 
Perhaps,  reader,  you  think  humdrum  would  be  the 

[148] 


FATHER  URIA'S  SAINTS 

more  appropriate  adjective  to  use  than  peaceful  or 
even  quiet.  And  to  one  like  our  Father  Uria,  thou 
sands  of  miles  from  his  early  home,  cut  off  from  all 
the  pleasures  and  advantages  of  ordinary  social  in 
tercourse,  it  was,  as  we  have  seen,  more,  much  more, 
than  humdrum.  But  for  Maria,  the  life  at  the  mission 
was  not  unlike  that  they  had  been  accustomed  to  in 
their  former  Mexican  home.  California  was  Mexico 
in  those  days,  and  the  life  greatly  similar. 

About  two  years  after  Benito's  arrival  at  San  Buena 
ventura,  a  dreadful  misfortune  befell  Father  Uria, 
in  the  death  of  his  largest  and  finest  cat — San  Fran 
cisco.  This  saint  had  always  manifested  a  most  sin 
gular  and  inveterate  propensity  to  hunt  tarantulas. 
More  than  once  he  had  been  discovered  when  just  on 
the  point  of  beginning  a  battle  with  one  of  those  mon 
sters,  and  had  been  stopped  in  the  nick  of  time.  With 
almost  constant  watchfulness,  the  Father  had  suc 
ceeded  in  preserving  the  life  of  his  cat  for  many 
years;  but  the  reader  has  already  guessed  what  the 
end  was  to  be.  After  an  absence  of  three  whole  days, 
during  which  the  Father  was  almost  distracted,  Be- 
nito  found  the  saint  dead  on  the  plain,  fully  a  mile 
from  the  mission.  On  one  paw,  which  was  slightly 
swollen,  a  minute  wound  was  discovered,  supposed  to 
have  been  the  bite  of  the  venomous  spider,  although 
the  Father  could  not  tell  positively.  Poor  Father  Uria 
was  inconsolable,  and  from  that  day  his  health,  which 
had  been  deserting  him  for  many  months,  yet  so 
gradually  as  to  be  hardly  perceptible,  took  a  sudden 
change  for  the  worse,  and  with  the  long  years  of  toil 

[149] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

he  had  lived,  soon  made  great  inroads  on  his  strength. 
Less  than  a  year  after  this  dire  event,  he  became  so 
feeble  that,  at  his  own  request,  he  was  relieved.  The 
last  thing  he  did  before  leaving  San  Buenaventura 
was  to  give  his  three  remaining  friends  into  the  charge 
of  Benito,  who  promised  to  care  for  them  faithfully 
so  long  as  they  lived.  Much  the  Father  would  have 
liked  to  take  them  with  him,  but  he  was  growing  too 
feeble  to  care  for  them;  and  once  retired  from  his 
position  as  head  of  the  mission,  he  would  not  have 
enough  power  and  authority  to  be  able  to  treat  them 
as  such  old  and  dear  friends  should  be  treated.  We 
shall  not  attempt  to  depict  the  sorrowful  parting  be 
tween  the  Father  and  his  cats  —  it  would  need  the 
master  hand  of  a  Dickens  to  keep  the  comic  element 
in  the  pathetic  scene  within  due  bounds.  The  Father, 
poor  old  man,  felt  no  further  interest  in  life,  broken 
down  in  health  and  obliged  to  give  up  his  compan 
ions,  his  only  comfort  being  the  thought  that  his  re 
maining  days  were  few,  and  would  soon  pass. 

He  removed  to  Mission  Santa  Barbara,  and  there, 
some  months  later,  at  the  close  of  the  year  1834,  he 
died,  worn  out  in  the  cause  of  his  Master. 

NOTE. — This  story  of  Father  Uria  and  his  oddities  is  not 
wholly  fanciful.  In  an  early  book  on  California  occurs  the 
following:  "At  dinner  the  fare  was  sumptuous,  and  I  was 
much  amused  at  the  eccentricities  of  the  old  Padre  [Father 
Uria],  who  kept  constantly  annoying  four  large  cats,  his 
daily  companions;  or  with  a  long  stick  thumped  upon  the 
heads  of  his  Indian  boys,  and  seemed  delighted  thus  to 
gratify  his  singular  propensities."  Alfred  Robinson:  Life  in 
California,  New  York,  1846,  Chap.  IV,  page  50. 


[150] 


POMPONIO 


POMPONIO 


IBERTY!  Liberty!  For 
a  half-century  we  have 
done  nothing  but  re 
peat  this  word,  and  one 
would  say  that  those 
mouths  which  pro 
nounce  it  belong  to  the 
heads  which  are  igno 
rant  of  its  meaning,  or 
rather  that  it  has  no 
meaning;  for,  if  one 
says :  'We  are  free !'  ten 
others  cry  out  at  once: 
'We,  we  are  oppressed !' 

Such  an  one  who  found, 

a  few  years  ago,  too  great  a  freedom,  to-day  demands 
very  much  more;  and  this  is,  doubtless,  because  each 
one  has  his  own  idea  of  liberty,  and  it  is  impossible 
to  create  a  liberty  for  each  one. — Liberty  to  empty  the 
treasury  of  the  state. — Liberty  to  seize  public  posi 
tion. — Liberty  to  gather  in  sinecures. — Liberty  to  get 
one's  self  pensioned  for  imaginary  services. — Liberty 
to  calumniate,  abuse,  revile  the  most  venerated  things. 

[153] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

— Is  this  to  enjoy  liberty?  No,  it  is  to  abuse  it,  to 
profane  it. 

"It  is,  then,  shown  that  no  one  is  agreed  on  what 
is  political  liberty;  but  it  is  not  that  about  which  I 
wished  to  write.  It  is  a  freedom  composed,  I  will  not 
say  of  all  men,  but  of  all  beings  who  are  in  existence; 
it  is  this  that  nature  demands  imperiously;  it  is  this, 
in  truth,  that  crime  compels  society  to  take  away 
from  the  wrong-doer;  but  it  is  this,  also,  that  injus 
tice  and  force  snatch  away  from  the  unhappy  slave." 

Thus  wrote  Captain  Duhaut-Cilly  in  his  journal  for 
the  year  1827,  contrasting  his  ideal  of  freedom  with 
the  actual  condition  of  the  aborigines  in  California, 
under  the  domination,  as  they  were  at  that  time,  of 
the  Catholic  Church,  through  its  agent,  the  order  of 
the  Franciscans. 

Just  a  few  words  are  necessary  here  as  an  intro 
duction  to  the  story  of  Pomponio,  to  enable  the  reader 
to  have  a  clear  impression  of  the  condition  of  affairs, 
political  and  ecclesiastical,  in  the  province  of  Nueva 
California  during  the  first  thirty  years  of  the  past 
century.  When  the  country  was  explored  and  settled 
by  the  Franciscans,  their  ostensible  and,  in  the  earlier 
days,  real,  aim  was  to  civilise  the  Indians,  teaching 
them  to  live  useful,  moral  lives,  and  instructing  them 
in  the  doctrines  of  Christianity.  But  to  do  this,  force 
was  necessary  to  subdue  the  turbulence  of  insubordi 
nation.  Gradually,  at  last,  the  greater  number  of  the 
natives  were  forced  under  the  rule  of  the  friars,  who 
brought  them  to  such  subjection  as  was  actual  slavery 
in  all  but  in  name.  It  is  a  matter  of  regret  that  this 

[154] 


POMPONIO 

was  so,  yet,  though  an  evil,  it  was  a  necessary  one, 
for  to  do  any  measure  of  good  to  the  Indians,  an 
oversight  in  every  detail  was  essential;  and,  after  all, 
the  savages  were  treated  with  almost  uniform  mild 
ness,  and  the  instances  of  cruelty  and  wickedness 
practised  toward  them,  as  in  this  tale  of  Pomponio, 
were  most  happily  very  rare.  It  is  a  blot  on  the  his 
tory  of  the  Franciscans  in  California  that  there  was  a 
single  instance  of  anything  but  kindness  and  hu 
manity;  but  the  truth  cannot  be  ignored,  however 
much  it  grieve  us  to  know  it.  Let  us  turn  to  Pomponio. 
His  is  a  strange  tale. 

Distant  about  a  league  south  from  Mission  San 
Francisco  stood  a  little  Indian  hut,  made  from  the 
tules  and  rushes  which  were  found  growing  with  such 
luxuriance  in  all  parts  of  Nueva  California.  It  was 
built  in  the  form  of  a  cone  with  a  blunt  apex,  was 
less  than  ten  feet  in  diameter,  and  but  little  more 
than  that  in  height.  An  opening  near  the  ground  gave 
communication  with  the  outer  air,  and  a  small  hole 
at  the  top  of  the  hut  allowed  the  smoke  from  the  fire 
to  pass  away.  This  hut  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  small 
open  spot  among  the  trees  of  the  dense  forest  which 
surrounded  it  on  all  sides;  small  in  extent  like  the 
many  other  wooded  spots  in  the  peninsula  which 
terminated  at  the  mission  and  the  presidio  of  San 
Francisco,  but  sufficiently  large  to  force  a  stranger 
to  them  to  lose  his  way  almost  at  the  first  step.  But, 
difficult  to  find  by  the  stranger,  this  little  open  space 
was  correspondingly  safe  from  pursuit  by  any  one 

[155] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

bent  on  hostile  deeds;  and  for  this  reason  it  had  been 
selected  by  Pomponio  for  a  retreat  for  himself. 

Pomponio  was  a  mission  Indian,  had  been  con 
nected  with  the  religious  establishment  since  boy 
hood,  and  had  made  great  progress  on  the  way  to 
becoming  a  civilised  human  being.  He  had  a  mind 
above  the  low  level  of  the  average  Galifornian  In 
dian  intellect,  and  had  been  an  object  of  solicitude  to 
the  padres,  arousing  in  them  an  interest  in  his  mental 
and  spiritual  welfare  seldom  evoked  by  the  neophytes 
in  general.  For  years  Pomponio  had  been  contented 
with  the  life  he  led  under  the  tutelage  and  control  of 
the  fathers,  receiving  unquestioningly  their  teaching, 
and  regarding  their  ordering  and  direction  of  his  and 
his  parents'  life  and  actions  in  every  particular  with 
indifferent  eyes.  But  when  Pomponio  left  childhood 
and  youth  behind  him,  and  acquired  the  mind  of  a 
man,  Indian  though  it  was,  he  began  to  see  the  state 
of  things  in  a  different  light.  "What  right  have  these 
padres,"  he  would  say  to  himself,  "to  come  here 
from  far  away,  take  our  land  from  us,  make  us  work 
for  them,  and  order  us  about  as  we  should  women 
and  children  taken  from  our  enemies  in  war?  And 
what  do  they  give  us  in  return?  They  teach  us  the 
religion  of  their  God,  and  make  us  learn  their  cate 
chism.  Is  their  religion  any  better  than  ours,  their 
God  more  powerful  than  the  Great  Spirit?  What  better 
is  it  to  till  the  ground  for  growing  food  than  to  kill 
the  wild  animals  with  bow  and  arrow?  Why  did  my 
father's  father  and  all  the  strong  men  of  those  days 
permit  these  espanoles  to  come  here?  I  would  have 

[156] 


POMPONIO 

withstood  them  to  the  last  drop  of  my  life's  blood." 
Thus  would  Pomponio  question.  The  Indians  of 
Nueva  California  were  mild  and  gentle,  having  noth 
ing  in  common  with  their  neighbors,  the  warlike 
Yumas,  and  were  easily  subjected  by  the  early  Fran 
ciscans.  But  gentle  and  pliant  as  they  were,  there 
were  always  a  few,  fiercer  than  the  rest,  who  did  not 
brook  calmly  the  sight  of  their  subjection;  and  these 
bolder  ones  stirred  up,  from  time  to  time,  the  other 
natives  to  insurrection.  Many  were  the  uprisings  at 
the  different  missions — one  of  the  earliest  at  San 
Diego,  in  1775,  when  the  savages  killed  one  of  the 
padres;  one,  the  last,  and  only  a  few  months  before 
the  beginning  of  our  tale,  late  in  1824,  when  the  two 
missions,  Purisima  and  Santa  Ines,  were  almost  de 
stroyed.  This  last  uprising  had  had  more  to  do  with 
Pomponio's  change  of  attitude  toward  the  fathers 
than  anything  else;  and  it  had  fired  his  zeal  to  devote 
his  life  to  the  freeing  of  his  kindred  and  tribe  from 
the  slavery  in  which  they  were  held  at  Mission  San 
Francisco. 

Pomponio,  simple  savage  that  he  was,  knew  little 
of  human  nature,  either  Indian  or  civilised.  He  judged 
others  by  himself,  not  realising  the  great  difference 
between  himself  and  the  generality  of  the  tribe  to 
which  he  belonged.  He  had  had  many  talks  with  the 
various  men  of  the  tribe,  trying  to  instill  into  their 
minds  some  of  the  ferment  of  his  own;  but  to  his 
amazement  and  anger  they  were  too  far  sunk  in  their 
servitude  to  be  roused  by  his  projects.  A  few  there 
were,  young  and  venturesome  like  himself,  who  de- 

[157] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

clared  themselves  ready  to  follow  him  as  a  leader; 
and  among  these  were  some  of  the  fierce  savages  of 
the  forests,  with  whom  he  was  always  in  touch;  but 
how  could  a  mere  handful  of  a  score  of  Indians  cope 
successfully  with  the  men  of  the  mission,  aided,  as 
they  would  be,  by  the  trained  soldiers  of  the  presidio  ? 
Pomponio  had  sense  enough  to  see  that  such  pro 
cedure  would  be  foolhardy,  and  he  abandoned  the 
plan  for  the  time,  hoping  his  little  body  of  followers 
would  increase,  when  the  disparity  in  strength  and 
numbers  between  the  two  sides  might  be  less. 

Pomponio  was  some  twenty-three  years  old.  A 
short  time  before  he  had  married  an  Indian  girl,  and, 
with  her,  lived  in  a  little  adobe  house,  a  few  paces 
from  the  mission  church.  Pomponio  and  Rosa  had 
lived  the  regular  life  of  the  neophytes,  working  at 
various  occupations  of  the  community — Pomponio 
tilling  the  ground  and  caring  for  the  crops,  and  help 
ing  in  the  making  of  bricks  for  the  houses ;  Rosa  spin 
ning  and  weaving  and  cooking.  After  they  were  mar 
ried  they  continued  with  their  customary  labors,  still 
under  the  tutelage  of  the  fathers.  But  about  this  time 
Father  Altimira  had  begun  to  notice  the  alteration 
in  Pomponio's  demeanor.  Wondering  at  the  change 
in  one  of  his  most  promising  neophytes,  he  had  sought 
to  find  a  clue  to  the  mystery.  From  an  unquestioning 
readiness  in  everything  pertaining  to  his  mission  life, 
Pomponio  had  begun  to  neglect  his  duties,  shirking 
the  tasks  given  him,  wandering  off  among  the  moun 
tains  and  stirring  up  the  mission  Indians  to  a  state  of 
dissatisfaction  and  ill-feeling.  Father  Altimira  had 

[158] 


POMPONIO 

seen  Pomponio's  growing  negligence  with  concern, 
but  to  his  questioning  Pomponio  would  give  no  an 
swer  as  to  the  reason  for  his  new  attitude  toward  his 
masters.  The  Father,  finding  that  persuasion  was  of 
no  avail  in  correcting  Pomponio's  disobedience,  had 
him  locked  up  in  the  mission  prison  for  twenty-four 
hours,  after  which  he  was  released  with  a  reprimand 
and  warning. 

Pomponio  walked  out  of  the  prison  and  to  his 
house  without  a  word.  For  a  few  days  he  was  quiet 
and  attentive  to  his  work,  not  from  fear  of  the  con 
sequences  of  doing  otherwise  (that  is  not  the  Indian 
nature,  even  of  those  poor  natives  of  Nueva  Cali 
fornia),  but  because  he  was  awaiting  his  opportunity 
for  inflicting  some  injury  on  his  persecutors,  as  he 
had  come  to  think  of  them. 

One  night  Father  Altimira,  who  was  a  light  sleeper, 
awoke,  thinking  he  had  heard  a  faint  noise  in  the 
room  adjoining  his  bed-room,  which  was  used  as  a 
store-room  for  the  books,  the  rich  vestments  embroid 
ered  with  gold  and  silver  threads,  and  the  money  be 
longing  to  the  mission.  At  this  time  there  was,  in  the 
strong  iron-bound  chest  used  for  the  safekeeping  of 
these  valuables,  a  sum  of  nearly  five  thousand  dol 
lars  in  gold,  and  the  Father's  first  thought  on  wak 
ing,  was  of  this  money.  Rising  on  his  elbow,  he  lis 
tened.  Hearing  nothing,  he  was  about  to  lie  down, 
when  again  came  the  sound  which  had  disturbed  him, 
scarcely  louder  than  the  chirp  of  a  far-away  cricket, 
and  which,  but  for  the  utter  silence  of  the  night, 
would  have  been  swallowed  up  in  the  thick  depths 

[159] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

of  the  adobe  wall  between  the  two  rooms.  Springing 
out  of  bed,  he  threw  on  his  clothes,  and  without  a 
thought  of  danger  to  himself,  hurried  out  to  the 
cloisters  and  the  next  room.  The  night  was  dark,  and 
he  could  not  make  out  anything  until  he  reached  the 
window  of  the  room  from  which  came  the  noise. 
The  heavy  wooden  shutters  were  slightly  ajar,  and 
through  the  narrow  upright  opening  between  them, 
filtered  the  faint  light  from  a  small  lantern  in  the 
room.  With  noiseless  steps,  Father  Altimira  ap 
proached  the  window,  and  looked  through  the  crack 
between  the  two  shutters.  There,  in  front  of  the  iron- 
bound  box,  knelt  Pomponio,  busily  at  work  on  the 
stout  padlock  that  guarded  the  treasures  within.  With 
all  the  strength  of  his  powerful  arms  he  filed  away 
at  the  bar  of  the  padlock.  For  a  moment  the  Father 
forgot  his  part  in  the  nocturnal  business,  and  stood, 
breathless,  at  the  window,  fascinated  by  the  quick 
motion  of  the  arm  back  and  forth,  and  the  strident 
sound  of  the  file  as  it  slowly  ate  its  way  through  the 
steel.  Suddenly  Pomponio  paused  and  looked  up, 
with  an  expression  of  fear  and  hate  on  his  face, 
dreadful  to  see.  Snatching  up  the  lantern  from  the 
floor,  he  dropped  it  behind  the  great  box,  and  ran  to 
the  window.  The  Father  stooped,  and  crouched  close 
against  the  wall  under  the  window — for  there  had 
not  been  time  to  get  away — and  waited,  hardly  dar 
ing  to  breathe.  Pomponio  carefully  opened  the  shut 
ters  and  peered  out,  but  he  could  distinguish  nothing 
in  the  intense  blackness.  After  listening  a  moment 
and  hearing  no  sound,  he  closed  the  shutters  and 

[160] 


POMPONIO 

went  back  to  his  work.  The  priest  waited  until  he 
again  heard  the  screech  of  the  file  before  he  dared  to 
move.  This  action  of  Pomponio  recalled  him  to  him 
self,  and  the  responsibility  resting  on  him  regarding 
the  safety  of  the  mission  funds. 

With  hasty  strides,  the  Father  started  off  to  seek 
assistance.  He  hurried  to  the  other  end  of  the  row  of 
buildings,  some  three  hundred  feet  distant,  where 
lived  the  Mexican  servants  of  the  mission.  At  the 
house  of  the  carpenter,  which  was  the  first  he  came 
to,  the  priest  rapped  loudly  on  the  door,  and  called 
to  the  occupant  to  awaken.  Juan,  the  carpenter,  an 
swered  almost  at  once,  and  came  to  the  door.  Before 
he  could  ejaculate  a  word  of  surprise  on  seeing  the 
Father,  the  latter  had  told  him  the  trouble. 

"Arouse,  with  all  haste,  the  men  in  the  next  house, 
while  I  go  for  Rafael.  Be  ready  when  I  come  back," 
and  the  Father  hurried  off. 

Juan  lost  no  time  in  awakening  the  two  men  in  the 
house  near-by.  A  moment  after,  the  Father  returned 
with  Rafael,  the  overseer,  and  together  the  five  men 
ran  swiftly  and  silently  to  the  scene  of  the  disturb 
ance.  Nearing  the  window  through  which  Pomponio 
had  forced  an  entrance,  the  carpenter  stepped  up  to  it 
softly.  The  Father's  absence  had  not  been  longer  than 
five  minutes,  and  the  thief  was  still  hard  at  work 
filing  the  padlock.  Muttering  to  Rafael  to  follow  him, 
and  the  other  two  men  to  guard  the  window  without, 
Juan  noiselessly  pushed  open  the  heavy  shutters,  and 
sprang  through  the  window,  Rafael  close  at  his  heels. 

It  was  not  until  both  men  had  passed  through  the 

[161] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

window,  so  quick  were  their  movements,  that  Pom- 
ponio  became  aware  he  was  discovered.  Looking  up, 
he  dropped  the  file,  snatched  up  the  lantern  and 
hurled  it  against  the  wall,  shivering  it  into  pieces. 
Just  as  the  light  went  out  the  men  seized  him.  Pom- 
ponio  fought  like  a  demon,  and  was  fast  getting  loose 
from  their  clutches,  when  Juan  shouted  to  the  men 
outside  to  come  to  their  aid;  but  too  late.  As  they 
clambered  through  the  window,  and  sought  to  lay 
hold  of  him,  which  was  not  the  work  of  a  moment  in 
the  darkness,  the  neophyte  broke  from  his  antag 
onists  and  sprang  to  one  side,  avoiding  the  oncoming 
couple  from  the  window.  While  the  men  were  shout 
ing  and  swearing,  groping  this  way  and  that  to  find 
their  prey,  Pomponio  slid  softly  to  the  window, 
jumped  through  it,  and  set  off,  at  his  utmost  speed, 
for  the  open  plain  and  not  far  distant  forest.  During 
the  fray  Father  Altimira  had  remained  somewhat 
apart,  outside  the  room.  As  Pomponio  rushed  by  him, 
the  Father,  calling  him  by  name,  commanded  him  to 
stop.  He  paid  no  attention,  but  kept  on  his  way,  and 
was  immediately  lost  in  the  darkness.  By  this  time 
the  four  men  had  piled  out  of  the  window,  falling 
over  each  other  in  their  eagerness  to  pursue  the  fast 
escaping  game. 

"It  is  useless  to  follow  him,"  cried  the  Father.  "You 
could  not  find  him  in  this  gloom.  Wait  till  daylight, 
and  we  will  hunt  for  him.  We  must  see  what  damage 
he  has  done  in  the  store-room.  Stay  here.  I  will  get  a 
light." 

The  Father  went  to  his  chamber,  and  brought  out 

[162] 


POMPONIO 

a  lighted  lantern,  and  with  this  the  men  returned  to 
the  now  quiet  room,  entering  by  the  door  which  the 
priest  unlocked  with  the  key  he  had  taken  from  its 
hiding  place  in  his  own  room.  With  the  exception  of 
the  shattered  lantern,  and  the  file  and  hammer  lying 
on  the  floor,  everything  was  in  order.  The  bar  of  the 
padlock  was  almost  filed  through — three  minutes 
more,  and  Pomponio  would  have  been  away  with 
his  booty.  As  further  sleep  that  night  was  out  of  the 
question,  the  Father  and  one  of  the  men  remained 
on  guard  in  the  room  until  dawn,  the  others  recon 
noitring  every  half-hour  to  see  that  all  was  quiet 
around  the  mission. 

When  morning  came,  the  first  thing  the  Father  did 
was  to  send  a  messenger  to  the  presidio,  four  miles 
distant,  with  a  letter  to  the  commandant,  relating  the 
occurrence  of  the  night,  and  asking  for  a  guard  for 
the  mission,  and  a  number  of  men  to  take  up  the 
hunt  for  the  escaped  culprit.  The  soldiers  arrived 
during  the  day,  and  at  once  made  active  preparations 
for  finding  Pomponio.  Beyond  knowing  the  general 
direction  he  had  taken  in  fleeing  from  the  mission, 
which  the  padre  had  noted  as  well  as  he  could  in  the 
darkness,  the  hunters  were  wholly  at  sea  as  to  where 
to  look.  He  might  be  in  any  part  of  the  hills  and  for 
ests  which  surrounded  the  mission  on  all  sides.  To 
the  north  he  would  probably  not  go,  for  that  way  lay 
the  presidio,  and  the  country  was  more  open  and 
travelled,  as  well  as  terminating,  at  no  great  distance, 
at  the  water's  edge  of  the  bay.  It  would  be  difficult, 
if  not  impossible,  to  find  an  Indian  of  Pomponio's 

[163] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

intelligence,  but  the  soldiers  began  their  task,  search 
ing  near  and  far,  visiting  the  various  rancherias  and 
the  room,  to  rob  which  he  had  made  such  a  bold  and 
country  for  many  days,  but  without  result.  We  shall 
leave  them  for  a  while,  and  see  what  is  become  of  our 
fugitive. 

As  Pomponio  passed  the  Father  in  his  flight  from 
the  room,  to  rob  which  he  had  made  such  a  bold  and 
nearly  successful  attempt,  he  heard  the  priest  calling 
him  to  stop;  but  what  cared  he  for  his  master?  Had 
not  he  been  fleeing  for  his  liberty  and,  perhaps,  for 
his  life,  he  would  have  killed  the  Father  on  the  spot : 
not  because  he  hated  his  kind  teacher,  but  because 
in  him  was  embodied  the  life  of  the  mission,  or  so  it 
seemed  to  Pomponio;  and  his  death  would  have  been 
one  blow  given  toward  the  freedom  of  his  kind.  But 
Pomponio's  first  thought  now  was  for  his  own  safety, 
and  he  took  the  shortest  course  to  the  forests  south  of 
the  mission.  As  much  at  home  among  the  great  trees 
as  at  the  mission,  he  made  his  way  into  their  depths 
with  unerring  aim,  in  spite  of  the  Egyptian  darkness, 
until  he  reached  a  slight  thinning  of  the  trees,  where 
he  halted.  The  spot,  mentioned  at  the  beginning  of 
this  tale,  was  a  favorite  of  Pomponio,  and  one  he  vis 
ited  from  time  to  time,  when  he  wished  to  be  free  to 
hold  communication  with  the  wild  men  in  the  neigh 
borhood.  Here  he  felt  reasonably  secure  from  sur 
prise,  and  here  he  meant  to  spend  the  days  to  come. 

There  was  an  old  Indian  hut  in  the  open  space 
which  once  had  sheltered  some  family,  and  was  now 
abandoned.  Pomponio  took  possession  of  this.  When 

[164] 


POMPONIO 

daylight  came,  he  went  in  search  of  the  savages  in 
the  forest,  and  on  finding  them,  he  recounted  his  ad 
venture  and  the  consequences  to  himself.  Among  the 
Indians  were  the  larger  number  of  those  who  had 
sworn  allegiance  to  Pomponio,  promising  to  follow 
him  whenever  he  should  decide  for  a  general  ex 
termination  of  the  detested  Spaniards.  They  wel 
comed  him  warmly,  and  supplied  him  with  food  and 
everything  he  needed  for  his  hut.  The  Indians  not 
included  in  his  band  of  followers  had,  heretofore, 
looked  askance  on  Pomponio,  and  had  sought  to 
withdraw  him  from  the  mission  into  their  own  wild 
life.  This  he  had  refused  to  do,  contending,  with  more 
than  usual  Indian  intelligence,  that  he  would  be  able 
to  wreak  greater  harm  to  the  Spanish  if  connected 
with  the  mission.  This  had  been  the  principal  reason 
for  his  small  following.  Now  that  he  had  broken 
definitely  with  his  old  life,  they  espoused  his  cause 
almost  to  a  man,  and  at  last  he  had  the  joy  of  seeing 
himself  at  the  head  of  a  very  respectable  band  of 
nearly  fifty  determined  men.  The  majority  of  them 
were  for  advancing  to  the  enemy  without  a  day's 
delay,  and  striking  a  decisive  blow  once  for  all.  But 
Pomponio  refused. 

"No,"  he  said.  "Wait  until  the  excitement  of  last 
night  dies  away;  then  we  shall  stand  a  better  chance 
of  winning.  But  now  the  mission  will  be  on  guard, 
and  we  should  be  defeated." 

This  cogent  reasoning  prevailed,  but  the  hot 
headed  youths  grumbled  much  and  long  at  the  delay. 

Pomponio,  himself,  chafed  at  their  enforced  inac- 

[165] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

tion,  necessary  though  he  knew  it  to  be.  Then  another 
thing  that  troubled  him  was  the  thought  of  his  wife. 
Would  they  think  she  knew  of  his  attempt  that  night, 
and  punish  her?  He  had  told  her  nothing,  but 
whether  she  could  make  the  Father  believe  it,  was 
another  matter.  Much  he  wished  he  could  have  some 
communication  with  her,  and  tell  her  where  he  was, 
and  beg  her  to  join  him.  But  it  was  too  dangerous. 
Without  a  doubt  she  was  watched  closely,  if  she  were 
not  actually  imprisoned.  So  he  gave  up  all  thought 
of  it. 

The  days  dragged  slowly  along  for  Pomponio  and 
his  companions.  Several  times  during  the  following 
two  weeks  he  heard  reports  of  the  doings  of  the  mis 
sion  from  different  ones  of  the  Indians  who  went 
thither  to  reconnoitre.  From  these  he  learned  that  the 
soldiers  were  still  kept  there,  and  while  they  re 
mained  on  guard,  nothing  could  be  done.  Once  Pom 
ponio  stole  up  to  the  more  distant  houses  of  the  mis 
sion  in  the  gathering  dusk  of  approaching  night.  He 
heard  the  chant  of  the  fathers  and  their  servants  at 
their  evening  devotions.  All  was  calm  and  quiet,  and 
he  was  just  about  to  risk  the  attempt  to  go  to  his  old 
home,  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Rosa,  when  a  soldier 
came  into  view  from  behind  the  church.  Pomponio 
crouched  down  behind  a  shrub  near  which  he  was 
standing,  and  waited  until  the  man  disappeared 
again  from  sight  in  his  round  of  the  buildings.  Then 
noiselessly  he  crawled  away  to  his  companions  in 
the  forest. 

It  was  about  two  weeks  after  Pomponio's  flight. 

[166] 


POMPONIO 

He  had  been  holding  a  council  of  war  with  his  fol 
lowers,  and  had  told  them  that,  at  last,  the  time  wras 
come  to  strike  for  liberty.  The  soldiers  at  the  mission 
had  not  been  seen  for  some  days,  and  it  wras  thought 
they  had  returned  to  the  presidio.  What  a  shout  of 
exultation  went  up  from  the  Indians!  Now  the  time 
was  at  hand,  the  time  they  had  looked  forward  to  for 
so  long,  when,  at  one  single  blow,  they  hoped  to  free 
themselves  from  their  hated  oppressors.  Vain  hope! 
Had  they  forgotten  already  what  was  the  fate  of  a 
similar  uprising  in  the  southern  missions  only  a  few 
months  before?  But  each  one  learns  from  his  own 
experience.  The  Indian  is  sanguine,  and  hopes  to 
succeed  where  others  have  failed,  or  carries  out  his 
purposes,  desperately  and  without  hope,  to  end  in 
certain  failure.  This  is  not  an  Indian  trait  exclu 
sively;  it  is  a  question  of  the  \veak  overpowered  by 
the  strong,  and  has  shown  itself  in  all  parts  of  the 
earth  and  in  every  race  of  mankind.  See  how  well 
treated  were  the  Indians  of  Nueva  California  by  their 
conquerors,  mild,  humane  and  devoted  to  their  inter 
ests,  having  given  up  home  and  friends  to  isolate 
themselves  in  a  wrild  new  country,  solely  to  bestow  on 
these  gentiles  the  blessings  of  civilisation  and,  above 
all,  the  gift  of  Christ's  religion.  We  may  wonder  why 
they  were  not  willing  and  glad  to  follow  the  fathers', 
almost  without  exception,  gentle  guidance.  But  the 
one  thing  necessary  to  make  it  a  complete  success 
was  wanting — freedom.  That  was  the  keystone  on 
which  all  depended :  lacking  that,  the  wrhole  mission 
system  was,  by  just  so  much,  a  failure. 

[167] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

Pomponio  was  returning  to  his  hut  late  that  day 
after  telling  his  followers  to  hold  themselves  in  readi 
ness  for  marching  on  to  the  mission  on  the  nightfall 
of  the  morrow.  He  had  nearly  reached  his  habitation, 
and  was  walking  slowly  and  with  downcast  head, 
buried  deep  in  thought  over  the  approaching  conflict 
which  he  had  wished  for  so  long.  Pomponio  saw 
clearly  that  the  task  before  him  and  his  band  was  a 
difficult  one.  He  was  not  blind  to  the  fact  that,  even 
should  they  succeed  at  this  mission,  there  would  be 
left  in  the  land  twenty  others,  each  one  of  which 
would  give  aid  in  quelling  a  revolt  at  San  Francisco, 
and  punishing  the  insurgents.  But  Pomponio  was  in 
a  desperate  mood.  He  preferred  failure  and  death  to 
his  life  at  the  mission,  and  he  knew  his  present  life 
as  a  fugitive  could  not  last;  he  would  certainly  be 
captured  sooner  or  later. 

He  walked  slowly  on.  Had  not  he  been  so  absorbed 
in  thought  of  the  crisis  of  his  life,  on  the  brink  of 
which  he  stood,  the  indications  of  something  unusual 
and  foreboding  would  have  arrested  his  attention.  A 
rustling  among  the  leaves  and  brush  of  the  under 
growth  told  of  the  presence  of  some  animated  thing, 
human  or  brute.  Once  a  gleam,  as  of  some  highly 
burnished  metal  flashing  in  the  sun,  was  to  be  de 
tected — that  surely  was  no  animal!  But  Pomponio 
walked  on  oblivious  to  these  signs  which,  at  any  other 
time,  he  would  have  been  the  first  to  notice.  He  was 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  hut,  and  on  the  edge  of  the 
clearing,  when  he  heard  a  crackling  among  the 
branches  under-foot,  and  a  rushing  toward  him.  One 

[168] 


POMPONIO 

glance  was  enough.  Three  soldiers,  armed  with  mus 
kets,  were  upon  him,  one  on  each  side,  the  third  in 
front.  They  were  close  to  him  before  he  was  aware 
of  their  presence,  and  escape  was  impossible,  for  he 
was  seized  and  his  arms  bound  behind  him  almost 
as  soon  as  he  knew  he  was  captured. 

"Aha !  we  have  you  at  last,"  cried  the  leader.  "You 
thought  we  could  not  find  you  out  here,  hiding  in 
the  forest.  And  I  must  say  it  has  been  hard  enough 
and  taken  long  enough.  But  we  have  you  safe  now, 
you  rascal." 

Pomponio  said  not  a  word.  From  the  first,  so  soon 
as  he  saw  he  was  helpless,  he  submitted  quietly,  and 
suffered  the  soldiers  to  bind  his  arms  with  the  leath 
ern  thong  they  had  brought  with  them.  Had  his  In 
dian  followers  been  within  sound  of  his  voice,  he 
would  have  shouted  to  them  to  come,  not  to  rescue 
him — that  could  not  have  been  done,  for  the  soldiers, 
at  the  instant  of  his  call  and  the  answering  cries  of 
the  Indians,  would  have  shot  him  dead — but  to  kill 
the  soldiers.  The  Indians  were  too  far  distant  for  this. 
How  the  soldiers  had  escaped  the  savages  was  a  mys 
tery.  They  must  have  been  at  his  hut  soon  after  his 
leaving  it  that  morning,  and  kept  watch  for  the  re 
turn  of  its  inmate,  thinking  it  might  be  Pomponio 
himself,  or  some  one  who  would  lead  to  the  discovery 
of  his  whereabouts.  Only  in  this  way  could  they  have 
missed  the  Indians  roaming  in  the  forest  that  day, 
as  they  made  their  preparations  for  the  eventful 
morrow. 

"Now,  my  man,  off  to  the  presidio,"  said  the  leader, 

[169] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

after  they  had  finished  binding  Pomponio's  arms  se 
curely.  "We  have  no  time  to  lose;  the  sun  is  low  in 
the  west,  and  will  be  set  long  before  we  get  there.  So 
step  lively  all." 

The  soldiers  picked  up  their  muskets,  and  started 
off  quickly  in  the  direction  of  the  mission,  Pomponio 
guarded  by  a  man  on  each  side,  grasping  his  pinioned 
arms.  Alas!  Was  this  the  end  of  his  long,  long  plan 
ning;  was  this  the  outcome  of  the  insurrection  which 
was  to  have  been  the  prelude  to  a  glorious  victory, 
that  he  should  have  been  caught  through  his  own 
carelessness  and  carried  off  ignominiously  to  prison? 
Pomponio  could  have  sacrificed  his  life  gladly  for  the 
cause  he  had  so  much  at  heart;  but  to  be  captured 
before  the  blow  for  liberty  had  been  struck  was  un 
bearable.  He  had  been  the  prime  mover  in  planning 
the  revolt,  and  well  he  knew  his  capture  sounded  the 
knell,  for  no  one  could  take  his  place  successfully  as 
leader. 

The  soldiers  hurried  their  prisoner  forward  almost 
on  the  run,  partly  because  it  was  so  late,  and  they  had 
a  long  walk  before  them,  partly  from  fear  of  encoun 
tering  some  of  the  savages  they  knew  were  in  the 
forest.  However,  they  were  not  molested,  and  reached 
the  mission,  lying  on  their  way,  as  the  last  bit  of  sun 
set  color  faded  away  on  the  horizon.  They  delayed 
only  long  enough  to  relate  the  circumstance  of  the 
capture,  and  to  get  two  of  the  soldiers,  acting  as  guard 
at  the  mission,  to  accompany  them  to  the  presidio. 
Pomponio  did  not  see  the  Father,  who  was  engaged 
with  the  sick  in  the  hospital,  and  he  was  glad.  After 

[170] 


POMPONIO 

a  stop  of  a  few  minutes,  they  again  took  up  their 
march,  and  reached  the  presidio  a  little  later.  Here 
the  commandant  of  the  garrison,  after  having  heard 
the  tale  of  the  leader,  and  taken  a  look  at  Pomponio, 
ordered  him  to  be  chained  to  the  wall  in  a  room  of 
the  prison.  This  was  done.  The  chains  were  fastened 
around  his  ankles;  his  arms  wrere  unbound,  and  he 
was  left  to  solitude  and  darkness. 

Poor  savage  captive !  Alone,  abandoned,  and 
chained  to  the  wall  of  the  little  cell  he  was  in,  so 
closely  that  he  could  barely  reach  the  low,  rough 
bench  on  which  to  sit.  But  Pomponio  could  have 
borne  his  imprisonment  patiently,  even  cheerfully, 
had  the  rebellion  only  taken  place,  successfully  or 
not.  That  was  the  maddening  thought.  He  buried  his 
head  in  his  hands.  Well  he  knew  that  all  hope  was 
over.  Even  though  he  might  manage  to  escape,  he 
would  find  the  Indians  dispersed  and  in  hiding,  too 
frightened  at  the  effect  his  capture  might  have  on  the 
Spaniards,  and  the  result  to  themselves.  All  was  over. 
He  had  nothing  farther  to  live  for.  Even  the  thought 
of  Rosa  failed  to  rouse  him,  for  he  knew  he  had  been 
too  wicked  in  the  eyes  of  the  fathers  to  be  permitted 
to  see  her  again — whether  in  prison  or  liberated,  if 
such  a  thing  could  have  been  dreamed  of,  she  was 
dead  to  him. 

Yet  the  love  of  life  is  implanted  too  deeply  in  the 
human  breast  to  die  before  life  itself  deserts  our 
mortal  body.  As  Pomponio  crouched  there,  bound 
and  forsaken,  a  passionate  feeling  of  revolt  at  his 
doom  arose  within  him.  Was  he  to  be  killed;  must 

[171] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

he  leave  this  earth,  beautiful  to  him  even  when  in 
the  lowest  depths  of  misery,  and  that,  too,  at  the 
command  of  his  enemies,  who  had  stolen  his  country 
and  made  him  and  his  kindred  slaves?  They  should 
not  take  his  life,  the  only  thing  they  had  left  him. 
And  with  the  wish  came  into  his  mind  a  plan  of 
escape  that  made  him  start. 

When  the  soldiers  arrested  and  imprisoned  Pom- 
ponio,  they  neglected  to  search  him,  thinking,  no 
doubt,  that  by  no  possible  means  could  he  escape 
from  them,  chained  as  securely  as  if  to  the  solid  rock 
itself.  Pomponio  had,  stuck  in  his  belt  underneath 
his  shirt,  a  hunting-knife,  his  trusty  weapon  and 
constant  companion.  No  one  who  has  not  lived  in  the 
wilderness  can  have  any  idea  of  the  value  of  the 
hunting-knife.  The  uses  to  which  it  can  be  put  are 
countless.  It  is  pocket-knife,  scissors,  hatchet,  dagger, 
and  all  cutting  and  stabbing  instruments  in  one;  it 
will,  moreover,  take  the  place  of  revolver  and  rifle 
on  many  occasions,  and  has  one  immense  advantage 
over  them — its  utter  silence.  It  is  a  powerful,  and,  at 
need,  murderous  weapon. 

Pomponio  pulled  out  his  knife  from  its  leather 
sheath  and  examined  it  by  touch,  for  it  was  too  dark 
to  see  it.  He  felt  carefully  of  the  blade;  yes,  it  was 
sharp  as  a  razor,  and  would  do  the  work  wanted  of 
it.  He  grasped  it  nervously,  but  firmly,  in  his  right 
hand.  Then  he  paused.  Was  it,  after  all,  worth  the 
pain  he  must  suffer;  had  life  anything  in  store  for 
him  in  recompense  for  what  he  must  endure?  He 
could  not  expect  to  be  again  a  power  among  his 

[172] 


POMPONIO 

brethren.  At  the  best  he  would  be  the  mere  wreck  of 
what  he  had,  till  now,  been  to  his  followers.  They 
might  look  to  him  for  counsel  and  advice :  as  a  leader 
he  could  be  of  no  more  use.  Again,  admitting  he  had 
the  courage  to  do  the  deed,  could  his  strength  hold 
out  until  he  reached  a  place  of  safety?  Suppose  he 
fell  helpless  on  the  way;  he  would  be  found  and 
brought  back.  Yet  to  do  nothing  was  to  receive  cer 
tain  death,  or  what,  to  Pomponio,  with  his  Indian 
pride,  was  worse,  a  public  whipping,  such  as  he  had 
heard  was  given  sometimes  for  grave  offences;  and 
afterward  such  humiliation  in  his  life  of  bondage  as 
was  not  to  be  borne.  No,  anything  to  free  himself 
out  of  the  hands  of  his  persecutors.  He  hesitated  no 
longer. 

Clutching  the  knife,  he  stooped.  Taking  firm  hold 
of  his  foot,  as  it  rested  on  the  ground,  with  his  left 
hand,  he  poised  the  edge  of  the  knife  on  his  heel, 
back  of  the  iron  ring;  then,  with  all  his  strength,  he 
gave  one  quick,  sharp  cut  downward  and  severed 
the  prominence  of  the  heel,  removing  the  greater 
part  of  the  os  calcis.  Not  a  sound  passed  his  lips. 
Letting  fall  the  knife,  he  pushed  the  ring  down  over 
the  wound  and  the  length  of  his  foot.  One  foot  was 
free,  but  only  one;  he  was  still  as  much  a  prisoner 
as  before.  Could  he  bear  the  torture  again? 

He  gave  himself  no  time  to  think,  but  picking  up 
the  knife,  repeated,  with  convulsive  strength,  the 
operation  on  his  other  foot.  With  a  low  moan,  wrung 
from  him  by  the  double  agony,  he  leaned,  faint  and 
deathly  sick,  against  the  wall.  In  this  position  he  re- 

[173] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

mained  for  many  minutes,  until,  above  the  pain, 
arose  the  thought  that  he  was  not  yet  free. 

The  small  window  of  the  prison  was  within  easy 
reach  from  the  floor,  and  it  would  have  been  the 
work  of  an  instant  to  vault  through  it,  had  Pomponio 
not  been  disabled  by  the  ugly  wounds  he  had  in 
flicted  upon  himself.  With  a  sigh  he  stood  up  slowly 
on  his  maimed  feet.  Think  of  the  power  of  will  of 
the  poor  Indian,  his  love  of  life,  and,  more  than  his 
love  of  life,  his  hatred  of  his  oppressors,  to  go 
through  the  agony  each  movement  caused  him!  He 
crept  up  to  the  window,  laid  hold  of  the  sill,  and, 
with  his  hands,  drew  himself  up  to,  and  through  it, 
the  blood  spouting  from  his  wounds  at  every  inch  of 
progress.  Lowering  himself  from  the  window,  he  lay 
down  on  the  ground  to  gather  a  little  strength  for 
flight.  But  first  he  must  bind  up  his  feet,  in  order  that 
his  blood  might  not  betray  whither  he  went.  Taking 
off  his  cotton  shirt,  he  tore  it  in  half,  and  wrapped 
each  foot  in  a  piece.  The  touch  of  the  cloth  to  his 
wounds  was  like  fire;  but  by  this  time  his  nerves 
were  benumbed  to  such  a  degree  that  he  scarcely  no 
ticed  it. 

Going  on  hands  and  knees,  he  started  to  creep  over 
the  distance  lying  between  him  and  the  fringe  of 
trees  near  the  presidio.  There  was  a  good  half-mile, 
and  Pomponio  feared  he  could  not  cover  it.  Four 
times  he  fell  to  the  ground  unconscious,  four  times 
he  revived  and  pushed  on  with  all  the  strength  he 
could  muster.  Fortunately  he  had  started  early  in  the 
night,  for  he  needed  every  minute  of  the  darkness. 

[174] 


POMPONIO 

Foot  after  foot,  yard  after  yard,  he  crept  along,  the 
presidio  and  the  other  buildings  receding  in  the  in 
creasing  distance  behind  him,  while  the  welcome 
woods  and  hills,  his  refuge,  loomed  up,  higher  and 
darker,  as  he  neared  them.  At  last  he  reached  the 
shelter  of  the  trees,  his  friends,  as  the  first  faint 
streaks  of  the  dawn  began  to  brighten  in  the  east. 
Only  a  little  time  remained  before  the  hue  and  cry 
would  begin,  and  he  must  find  a  place  of  conceal 
ment  before  then,  else  he  were  lost.  Pomponio  knew 
every  part  of  the  forests  for  miles  around;  and  after 
getting  under  cover  of  them,  he  turned  at  a  slight 
angle  toward  the  southwest,  and  made  straight  for  a 
cave  he  had  once  visited  when  hunting  for  a  bear. 
He  remembered  it  was  concealed  by  a  thick  tangled 
mass  of  bushes  and  young  trees,  hiding  it  so  effectu 
ally  that  discovery  wras  well  nigh  impossible.  In  pur 
suing  the  bear,  Pomponio  had  tracked  it  to  the  cave 
which  it  had  entered,  and  this  it  was  that  gave  him 
the  secret.  Summoning  all  his  remaining  strength  for 
a  last  supreme  effort,  he  dragged  himself  on  slowly 
and  painfully.  It  was  not  far,  and  soon  he  recognised 
the  clump  of  bushes  that  shaded  the  entrance;  and 
none  too  soon,  for  just  before  reaching  it,  he  heard  a 
musket  shot  in  the  direction  of  the  presidio.  His  flight 
was  discovered.  But  he  was  safe,  for  the  present,  at 
least;  and  crouching  down  in  the  depths  of  the  dark 
cave,  kind  nature  once  more  came  to  his  relief,  and 
he  knew  no  more. 

Great  was  the  excitement  at  the  presidio  when 
Pomponio's  escape  was  discovered.  The  soldiers,  on 

[175] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

going  past  the  place  on  their  morning  rounds,  saw 
the  bloody  tracks  of  the  prisoner's  descent  on  the 
wall  under  the  window.  An  instant  investigation  was 
made,  and  the  truth  of  the  awful  manner  in  which 
Pomponio  had  accomplished  his  evasion  disclosed. 
Stupefied,  the  commandant  and  his  men  gazed  at  the 
traces  of  the  deed,  the  pools  of  half-dried  dark  blood 
and  the  two  pieces  of  bone,  eloquent  of  the  fortitude 
he  must  have  possessed,  the  desperation  he  was  in, 
to  perpetrate  such  an  act. 

Might  not  it  be  thought  that  so  astonishing  a  hardi 
hood  would  have  awakened  a  feeling  of  admiration 
and  pity  for  the  unfortunate  being?  So  heroic  a  deed 
would  have  elicited  praise  to  rend  the  skies  from  the 
peoples  of  antiquity,*  and  the  story  of  Pomponio 
would  have  passed  down  from  generation  to  genera 
tion  as  that  of  one  of  their  brave  men.  But,  alas!  in 
the  breasts  of  the  men  with  whom  Pomponio  had  to 
deal,  no  such  sentiment  of  ruth  was  raised.  On  the 
contrary,  they  were  roused  to  an  even  greater  vio 
lence  of  hatred  and  anger  toward  the  poor  savage. 
Wild  with  rage  that  his  prisoner,  whom  he  had 
hunted  for  so  long,  should  have  escaped  when  se 
curely  bound,  the  commandant  sent  out  his  men  in 
squads  of  four  and  five  to  scour  the  woods  and  find 
their  prey.  "He  must  and  shall  be  found,"  he  said. 

The  search  was  instituted  forthwith.  For  days, 
weeks  and  months,  they  hunted  for  Pomponio,  but 
not  a  trace  of  him  was  found.  Gradually,  as  time 

*"Un  trait  que  les  Anciens  auraient  divinise."  Duhaut-Cilly. 

[176] 


POMPONIO 

went  on,  the  search  was  given  up,  for  the  intense  ex 
citement  roused  by  his  flight  died  out  from  want  of 
fresh  fuel  to  feed  upon,  and,  in  addition,  the  soldiers 
were  required  for  other  more  immediate  needs;  so 
that,  before  a  year  was  past  after  his  escape,  all  in 
terest  in  the  subject  ceased,  and  Pomponio  was  sel 
dom  thought  of,  or  his  name  spoken,  except  among 
those  of  the  Indians  to  whom  he  and  his  deed  were 
ever  an  impulse  toward  insubordination. 

And  what  was  Pomponio  doing?  At  first  from  ne 
cessity,  on  account  of  his  wounded  feet,  and  after 
ward  so  long  as  the  soldiers  kept  up  a  vigorous 
search  for  him,  he  made  the  cave,  in  which  he  had 
taken  refuge,  his  home.  All  that  day,  following  the 
night  of  his  escape,  he  lay  in  the  cave,  more  dead  than 
alive,  caring  for  nothing,  wishing,  even,  he  might  die, 
now  he  was  out  of  the  grasp  of  his  enemies.  But  the 
next  morning  the  pangs  of  hunger  awakened  him  to 
life  and  its  realities.  Nearly  two  days  were  passed 
since  he  had  had  a  morsel  to  eat.  He  was  too  weak  to 
go  in  search  of  food,  and  his  only  help  must  come  from 
making  his  presence  known  to  some  of  the  Indians 
who  were  scattered  in  the  forest.  Pomponio  crawled 
to  the  opening,  and  out  beyond  the  clump  of  bushes 
hiding  it,  with  the  greatest  caution.  Slowly  and  pain 
fully  he  reconnoitred  in  every  direction — no  trace 
or  sound  of  the  soldiers.  Picking  out  a  vantage  point, 
from  which  he  had  a  survey  among  the  trees  of  sev 
eral  hundred  feet  radius,  he  took  up  his  watch,  keep 
ing  a  careful  lookout  for  the  soldiers,  as  well  as  for 
any  of  his  kindred  who  might  chance  to  wander 

[177] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

thither.  Here  he  passed  the  day,  his  little  strength 
slowly  leaving  him  as  the  hours  went  by,  until,  near 
evening,  he  felt  that  unless  help  came  before  the 
darkness  fell,  he  could  not  survive  the  night.  Almost 
past  caring  whether  the  soldiers  found  him,  he  lay 
back  against  a  little  heap  of  leaves  he  had  scooped 
together,  giving  himself  up  to  the  numb,  delicious 
feeling  of  the  last  sleep — no  more  to  be  feared  and 
fought  against — when  his  ear  caught  the  sound  of 
steps,  muffled  by  the  leaves  of  the  undergrowth  car 
peting  the  ground.  He  started;  life  for  an  instant  re 
turned  to  him.  Did  that  portend  the  approach  of  the 
soldiers,  or  was  it  some  friendly  Indian  roaming  the 
forest  for  game,  and  now  on  his  return  home?  He 
gazed  into  the  obscurity  of  the  approaching  night, 
lying  back  too  weak  to  move,  though  it  were  his  en 
emies  come  to  take  him  again.  But  his  fear  was  vain. 
It  was  an  Indian  boy,  not  more  than  fifteen  years  old, 
on  the  way  to  his  tribe.  At  sight  of  him  Pomponio 
was  rejoiced,  for  the  nearing  Indian  belonged  to  his 
own  tribe,  and  but  for  his  extreme  youth  would  have 
been  included  among  Pomponio's  followers  in  the 
contemplated  revolt. 

His  eyes  lighted  up  with  the  fire  of  life.  He  raised 
himself  on  an  elbow,  and  when  the  Indian  was  within 
a  few  yards  of  him,  and  about  to  turn  aside  to  reenter 
the  thicker  woods  beyond,  Pomponio  called  to  him. 
His  voice  was  hardly  above  a  whisper,  but  it  was  suf 
ficient.  The  Indian  heard,  and  turned  quickly.  See 
ing  the  form  of  a  man,  he  started,  and  was  on  the 
point  of  springing  away  into  the  forest,  when  Pom- 

[178] 


POMPONIO 

ponio  spoke,  this  time  in  a  louder  and  stronger  tone : 

"Help  me  Taxlipu,  I  am  nearly  dead.  I  am  Pom 
ponio." 

"Pomponio!"  almost  shrieked  the  boy.  "It  cannot 
be.  I  saw  Pomponio  carried  away  and  locked  up  at 
the  presidio,  and  an  Indian  told  me  he  had  been 
chained  fast  to  the  wall  of  his  prison  cell." 

The  boy  came  nearer  as  he  said  this,  but  he  held 
himself  ready  to  flee  at  the  least  movement  of  the 
figure  lying  on  the  ground.  "Surely  it  is  his  spirit," 
he  said  to  himself,  "for  it  is,  indeed,  the  countenance 
of  Pomponio." 

But  the  wounded  man  spoke  again:  "I  am  Pom 
ponio.  I  cut  myself  loose  from  the  chains  that  bound 
me,  and  escaped  from  my  prison.  Give  me  a  little 
water,  else  I  die,"  and  again  he  lost  consciousness. 

But  he  was  saved.  Taxlipu  came  close,  and  gazed 
earnestly  at  the  dark  upturned  face.  Yes,  that  was 
Pomponio.  He  sprang  away  and  dashed  madly  into 
the  forest,  and  on  to  the  settlement  of  the  Indians, 
for  help.  Here  he  found  a  number  of  Pomponio's  fol 
lowers  together,  talking  sadly  of  the  mishap  to  their 
chief.  Taxlipu  burst  in  on  them  with  the  startling 
news  that  Pomponio  had  escaped  and  was  now  in  the 
forest  nearly  dead.  The  men  sprang  up,  telling  the 
boy  to  lead  them  to  the  place.  But  before  starting, 
one  of  the  Indians  went  to  a  hut  close  by,  and 
brought  out  with  him  part  of  a  rabbit,  freshly  cooked, 
and  an  olla  of  water.  With  these,  the  company  set 
off  on  the  run,  led  by  Taxlipu.  It  was  only  a  few  min 
utes  before  they  reached  the  spot  where  Pomponio 

[179] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

lay  as  one  dead.  The  Indian  with  the  water  knelt 
down  by  his  side,  and  poured  some  drops  into  his 
mouth.  After  a  short  while,  during  which  the  dose 
was  repeated  as  often  as  it  was  swallowed,  Pomponio 
opened  his  eyes,  drawing  a  heavy  sigh. 

Tenderly  and  reverently  they  cared  for  him.  At  his 
request  they  bore  him  into  the  cave  where  he  would 
be  safe  from  the  sight  of  any  chance  party  from  the 
presidio  hunting  for  him,  and  here  they  nursed  him 
back  to  life  and  strength.  It  was  many  days  before 
he  recovered  from  the  effects  of  the  great  loss  of 
blood  he  had  suffered;  many  more  before  the  wounds 
in  his  feet  healed.  From  the  ill-usage  to  which  he  had 
subjected  them,  inflammation  set  in,  and  at  one  time 
great  fear  was  felt  that  he  could  not  survive;  but  his 
strong  constitution  prevailed.  Yet  after  all  he  would 
have  died  gladly,  for  he  was  a  helpless  cripple  from 
that  day,  hobbling  around  only  with  the  aid  of  rude 
crutches. 

His  comrades  vied  with  each  other  in  their  atten 
tions  to  the  sick  leader,  and  after  he  had  recovered 
from  the  fever  and  weakness,  they  furnished  him 
with  all  the  necessaries  of  life  which  he  was  unable 
to  obtain  by  his  own  efforts.  After  a  few  months  in 
the  cave,  Pomponio  left  it  to  be  with  the  Indians  in 
the  forest  near  the  mission;  but  he  was  careful  to 
keep  away  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  scene  of  his 
capture,  judging  rightly  that  that  place  would  be 
under  surveillance  at  any  time  of  uneasiness.  How 
ever,  there  was  no  thought  of  farther  insurrection. 
Their  spirit  had  been  broken  with  Pomponio's  cap- 

[180] 


POMPONIO 

hire,  for  a  long  time,  at  any  rate.  But  although  they 
had  abandoned  all  idea  of  a  general  uprising,  they 
did  everything  in  their  power  to  annoy  and  harass 
their  enemies:  stealing  their  horses  and  cattle  and 
sheep;  devastating  their  crops  of  wheat  and  grapes, 
and,  once  or  twice,  setting  fire  to  an  outlying  mission 
house  or  granary.  Their  lofty  idea  of  freedom  from 
servitude  had  degenerated  thus  into  a  system  of  petty 
depredation. 

Here,  among  his  friends,  Pomponio  passed  the 
days  quietly  and  sadly,  caring  for  nothing,  and  go 
ing  through  mechanically  the  routine  of  each  day. 
His  spirit  was  crushed — not  so  much  from  the  effects 
of  his  treatment,  but  because  his  long  thought  of, 
long  desired,  purpose  was  come  to  naught.  He  paid 
but  little  attention  to  the  affairs  of  those  about  him. 
They  went  and  came,  carried  on  their  game  of  life, 
rousing  in  him  only  a  gleam  of  interest.  Thus  three 
years  passed. 

One  day,  in  the  early  spring,  the  Indians  went 
away  on  a  foraging  expedition,  leaving  Pomponio 
alone  in  his  hut.  It  had  been  a  warm,  sunny  day,  and 
in  the  afternoon  Pomponio  dragged  himself  to  a  little 
moss-covered  bank  under  the  trees,  on  which  he 
stretched  himself,  and,  after  a  short  time,  he  fell 
asleep.  All  was  quiet.  Not  a  sound  was  to  be  heard 
save  the  insects  humming  drowsily  in  the  heated  air, 
and,  now  and  then,  the  whirr  of  an  oriole  as  it  flew 
swiftly  past,  lighting  up  with  a  glint  of  gold  the 
shadows  among  the  trees.  The  oriole  is  sunlight  in 
carnate. 

[181] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

But  this  quiet  scene  was  to  be  broken.  The  sound 
of  branches  snapping  beneath  the  tread  of  some 
heavy  foot  was  heard.  It  drew  near  the  secluded 
spot;  then  the  form  of  a  man,  carrying  a  musket, 
could  be  discerned,  making  his  way  to  the  glade.  He 
reached  the  edge  of  the  clearing,  when  he  espied  the 
sleeping  Indian,  lying  with  his  face  turned  from  him. 
He  halted  instantly.  Was  it  an  Indian  belonging  to 
the  mission,  and  playing  truant,  or  one  of  the  sav 
ages  of  the  forests,  from  whom  the  mission  had  suf 
fered  so  much  during  the  last  three  years?  He  must 
find  out.  Creeping  so  slowly  and  carefully  that  not  a 
sound  was  heard  again  from  his  feet  among  the 
plants,  he  passed  around  the  edge  of  the  glade  to  a 
point  nearly  opposite,  in  order  to  get  a  more  direct 
view  of  the  sleeping  man.  What  a  diabolical  expres 
sion  of  alternate  hate  and  triumph  passed  over  his 
countenance!  Here  was  the  scoundrel  who  had 
escaped  from  the  presidio.  After  three  years,  when 
hope  of  ever  finding  him  again  had  died  out,  wrhen, 
except  for  the  depredations  continually  taking  place 
at  the  mission  and  presidio,  every  one  would  have 
declared  Pomponio  was  dead  of  the  wounds  he  had 
inflicted  on  himself,  that  he,  Pablo,  the  youngest  sol 
dier  at  the  presidio,  when  out  hunting,  and  with  no 
thought  of  enemies  near,  should  find  the  miscreant, 
asleep  and  in  his  power!  This  would  advance  him  in 
the  good  graces  of  the  commandant. 

There  was  no  time  to  lose.  Pomponio  might  awake 
at  any  moment;  his  friends  in  the  forest  might  re 
turn  on  the  instant.  He  raised  his  musket  and  took 

[182] 


POMPONIO 

long  and  steady  aim  at  the  Indian.  There  was  a  re 
port  that  raised  the  echoes.  With  lightning  speed  the 
soldier  reloaded,  and  then  cautiously  drew  nearer; 
but  there  was  no  need  of  apprehension  from  Pom- 
ponio.  He  was  dead — shot  through  the  heart.  The  sol 
dier  gazed  at  the  inanimate  form,  at  the  bullet-hole 
in  his  breast,  from  which  the  blood  was  trickling, 
and  at  the  poor  mutilated  feet.  Did  a  glimmer  of  pity 
stir  in  his  heart?  It  were  hard  to  say.  Yet,  as  he  stood 
there  looking  down  at  his  work,  perhaps  there  was  a 
little  feeling  of  sorrow  for  the  fate  of  his  fellow  man, 
coupled  with  a  touch  of  shame  at  his  own  unmanly 
act  in  thus  murdering  his  sleeping  foe,  criminal  though 
he  was,  and  richly  deserving  death.  But  he  had  scant 
time  for  reflection.  The  noise  of  men  approaching 
was  heard  in  the  forest.  Pomponio's  friends  would 
be  here  in  an  instant.  He  must  go  at  once.  He  slipped 
away  among  the  trees  in  the  direction  from  which  he 
had  come,  and  vanished.  A  moment  later  four  In 
dians  appeared  at  the  point  where  the  soldier  had 
stood  when  he  fired.  Their  first  glance  at  Pomponio 
revealed  to  them  the  meaning  of  the  shot  they  had 
heard. 

Pomponio  was  buried  that  night,  secretly  and  in 
profound  silence.  His  comrades,  determined  his  en 
emies  should  never  find  his  grave  and  body,  bore  it 
into  the  deepest  recesses  of  the  forest,  and  there  in 
terred  it,  afterward  removing  all  trace  of  any  dis 
turbance  of  the  earth  covering  it.  There  they  left  him, 
at  rest,  his  little  part  in  life's  drama  ended. 

Pablo's  story  of  his  killing  Pomponio  was  not  be- 

[183] 


OLD  MISSION  STORIES 

lieved  when  he  told  it  at  the  mission  and  the  pre 
sidio.  No  one,  however,  could  contradict  him,  and  as 
time  went  on,  and  nothing  farther  was  heard  of  the 
neophyte,  and  the  marauding  at  the  mission  became 
less,  until  it  ceased  altogether,  his  assertion  came,  in 
time,  to  be  regarded  as  the  true  account  of  Pom- 
ponio's  death. 

NOTE. — The  writer  has  taken  the  liberty  of  altering  the 
real  facts  of  Pomponio's  end.  He  was  captured  by  a  party  of 
four  soldiers,  tried  by  court  martial  at  Monterey,  in  Febru 
ary,  and  shot,  about  September,  1824.  The  period  covered  by 
the  story,  also,  has  been  changed  to  three  years  later  than 
the  actual  time  of  occurrence.  It  is  surprising  that  Bancroft, 
from  whose  history  the  facts  in  this  note  are  taken,  does  not 
mention  Captain  Duhaut-Cilly  who,  in  his  Voyage  autour  du 
Monde,  Vol.  II,  Chap.  XI,  recounts  Pomponio's  self-mutila 
tion  in  order  to  effect  his  escape.  As  Pomponio's  execution 
occurred  only  three  years  before  Duhaut-Cilly's  visit,  the 
French  captain  must  have  learned  his  facts  with  a  close  ap 
proach  to  accuracy,  and  it  seems  safe  to  take  them  without 
reserve.  Bancroft  affects  to  regard  the  main  fact  in  this 
story  with  some  incredulity,  and  limits  the  victim's  man 
acles  to  one  ankle  only.  Vide  Bancroft :  History  of  California, 
Vol.  II,  pp.  537-38. 


[184] 


HERE  END  THE  STORIES  OF  THE  OLD  MISSIONS  OF 
CALIFORNIA  AS  TOLD  BY  CHARLES  FRANKLIN  CARTER, 
DECORATED  BY  WILLIAM  H.  WILKE  AND  PUT  INTO 
BOOK  FORM  BY  PAUL  ELDER  AND  COMPANY  AT  THEIR 
TOMOYE  PRESS,  SAN  FRANCISCO,  UNDER  THE  CAREFUL 
DIRECTION  OF  RICARDO  J.  OROZCO,  IN  THE  MONTH  OF 
NOVEMBER,  NINETEEN  HUNDRED  AND  SEVENTEEN 


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